Snippets, Plus Some
by GingersnapBeat
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots based in GreenWithAwesome's TSatS/TRatR universe. Newest Addition: "Calm Waters" - They just need a moment of rest, and if it takes Camilla kidnapping her husband for that to happen, then so be it.
1. Operation Snakescape (Parker)

**A/N: **Let's play a game called "Ginger sits down to write. She writes more than she intended. Against her better judgement, Ginger posts it. What is Ginger doing? Ginger wishes she knew" because this literally came out of no where. Basically, what was intended to be a hundred word snippet turned into a 1500+ word train wreck. Now, this is technically a fanfiction of a fanfiction (for those that grew up with Neopets, consider it the written equivalent of a petpet, except with more tears and neglected research papers on my part). So it might not seem Selection-based but it _does _at least take place in like a sub-universe of the series.

Parker is from GreenWithAwesome's _The Rebound and the Rink_ (which if for some reason you're still here you should go read that instead because it is AMAZING). And at this point I'm stalling. Okay. I'm just gonna...leave now. *cough* Do with this what you will.

* * *

**Operation Snakescape: or, the one where Parker takes up snake-charming**

Wriggles was depressed.

While the rest of his class was content to watch the documentary, Parker eyed the class snake in the corner of the room. She was curled up against the side of the cage as opposed to her usual basking under the heat lamp, head tucked on one of her coils as she stared listlessly into the dark room.

"While garter snakes commonly eat small rodents and reptiles, this one has found an unsuspecting frog as a tasty snack," the documentary's narrator said, his voice diverging from its usual drone for just a few seconds in the excitement. Parker looked up at the television just in time to see a frog gasping for air as was slowly dragged into the snake's mouth. A few of the kids screamed. The girl next to Parker cheered and bounced in her seat.

He glanced back at Wriggles. Unlike the snake on-screen, she sat motionless. Her scales, which were usually a polished white speckled with rust-orange spots, appeared dull and gray. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their glisten. Parker thought he saw her sigh.

Had Wriggles ever left the classroom? Her cage? Mrs. Bermudez had drilled it into every 8th grade students' mind that she was the only one allowed to handle the snake, but Parker had only ever seen her drop food into the cage. He scratched absentmindedly at the scar on the back of his head and frowned. Parker knew what it was like to be stuck in a cage; it was probably the most boring form of existence out there. No wonder the snake was lacking her usual vigor.

Flickering lights derailed his thoughts, and he blinked rapidly to adjust to the sudden brightness. The substitute teacher—whom Parker had nicknamed Subzero for his icy glares that radiated hatred for young teenagers—gave a reminder for the night's homework before dismissing the class for the day. Parker released a groan. With Mrs. Bermudez gone on maternity leave one would think that grading 30 students' essays would be the last thing on her mind.

Parker himself had better things to think about as he trekked towards the parking lot. He didn't know much about snake psychology, but he was pretty sure Wriggle's low spirits wouldn't be cured overnight. Back when he was in the hospital, he'd wanted nothing more than to leave. The only respite he'd gotten from that colorful-but-tiny room was the one time Harley had snuck him outside to play hide and seek on the hospital grounds—

_Wait_. Parker stopped, causing the kid behind him to stumble and curse. Parker gave him a large smile in reply before sprinting back towards the classroom. _That was it!_

To his luck, the substitute had left the door unlocked and the classroom was completely empty. Moving towards the snake cage, he glanced once at the door before sliding the lid off.

Wriggles moved her head slightly at the moment and Parker stilled his hand for only a second before reaching it into the cage. He shook his head. This was no time for hesitation. The only way Wriggles could be truly happy was if she was slithering wild and free, far away from the oppressive atmosphere that was the public education system.

Parker wouldn't let her languish any longer. "Operation Snakescape is a go," he whispered to Wriggles, gently wrapping his hands around her cool, slick body.

She made little fuss as he lifted her from the cage, tongue flickering curiously. Parker bent down to unzip his backpack, but muffled voices from just outside the door caused him to startle, and he barely stopped himself from dropping Wriggles to the tiled floor.

Not the most ideal timing, but Parker forced his panic down. This was just a minor setback, nothing to freak out about.

"Sorry for this," he muttered to her, before pulling out the neck of his hoodie and dropping the 2-foot boa down the front. She squirmed uncomfortably, and Parker felt a pang of guilt. He probably should have washed his clothes like his mother had asked instead of wearing the same sweatshirt for two weeks in a row. At least the design was cool—it had Aegis, the newest member of the CosmoSquad, on the front—but it probably didn't smell the freshest.

He'd managed to slide the cage lid close and pull his backpack to his chest, taking care not to smoosh Wriggles, before the door opened and Mr. Subzero stepped through. He blinked a few times at Parker before saying, "Mr. Zaleski, what are you doing here?"

To Parker's relief, Wriggles had coiled herself against his stomach and gone still. He flashed the teacher a sheepish smile, brushed his curly hair from his forehead, and peered up at him with wide eyes. _When in doubt, charm it out._

"The documentary was just so interesting and I g-got so distracted that I forgot my notebook," he said.

Mr. Subzero narrowed his eyes, and Parker changed tactics. "I didn't do as well on my last test and wanted to s-study...study more on reptilian hunting habits and c-couldn't—" He stopped, taking a deep breath. The substitute's expression softened, and for once Parker silently cheered at the sympathy his stutter tended to generate. "I couldn't do that without my notes."

The silence stretched on. Wriggles, as if sensing how close she was to freedom, impatiently nudged her head under Parker's shirt and brushed against his bare skin. His mouth twitched, but he managed to hold back a laugh.

He had to stay strong. For Wriggles.

"Very well," Mr. Subzero eventually said. He motioned for Parker to move out of the classroom. "Let's try not to be so distracted next time, yeah?"

Parker nodded solemnly, making sure to maintain eye contact. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

When the door clicked behind him, Parker whooped and went to pump his fist in the air before remembering the snake in his shirt. Ducking into a corner shielded from the school's security cameras (a popular spot for couples, but thankfully there was no liplocking taking place at the current moment), he gingerly removed Wriggles from his shirt and placed her in the bottom of his bag, taking care to leave the zipper slightly open so that she would have air.

Then he strolled out of the school's front doors. He, a free man for the rest of the afternoon. Wriggles, a free snake for the rest of her life.

"You look happy," Harley, Parker's sister, greeted him as he slid into the passenger seat of her battered truck. Her 8-month-old son Tyce blabbered in the back seat, tiny hands waving in the air as though he was trying to catch the dirt splatters on the back window. "Did you finally ditch the sub?"

"I wish. His newest way of 'teaching' is having us watch snake documentaries while he skims tabloid articles on his phone," he said, placing the backpack gently between his legs. He closed his eyes as the truck pulled onto the main road, swallowing back a surge of unsease as they picked up speed.

"Must of been some documentary if you're smiling that much. Or did you just realize that with the reptiles is where you really belong?" Harley teased.

"Not really. It was as boring as your insults."

"Then what's with the megawatt grin?"

"I was talking with a friend after class. She's hiss-terical."

Harley wrinkled her nose, and glanced at Parker with concerned eyes. "Snake puns. Is this going to be a thing now?"

"It it's any c-consolation, that was the only one I could think of."

"Something Mom and Dad will be thankful for, I'm sure."

When Harley pulled into the driveway, Parker was unbuckled and leaping out the door before the truck had even come to a stop. Making sure that Harley was too preoccupied with Tyce to pay attention to his whereabouts, he darted around the side of the house and into the backyard.

He scanned the small yard, which was more mud than grass, and clapped his hands together as he spotted the overgrown bush that lined the wooden fence. Thin branches spilled to the ground, creating a miniature forest that would easily shelter, say, a _snake _from prying eyes. Not even the royal family, even if they brought every single guard for the search, would be able to find her in the thick vegetation.

_Bingo._

He knelt down and unzipped the backpack. Wriggles gazed up at him lazily. He stroked her head with a finger before lifting her out.

"Wriggles, meet your destiny. Earth, meet _wriggleus s-snakitus, _the fiercest boa to grace the wild."

Wriggles plopped into the soft dirt and sat still, darting tongue the only sign of life. Parker frowned and nudged the snake's side with his finger. Finally, when that provoked no response, he picked her up and gently maneuvered her through a gap in the bush, rearranging the branches so that they covered her.

Wriggles probably just needed a few minutes to fully absorb the pure awesomeness that came with freedom, that was all. She be out suffocating frogs in no time.

Satisfied, Parker stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. Operation Snakescape was a success!

At least, it was until three hours later, when Parker's dad nearly tripped over Wriggles, who was sunbathing on the warm tiles of their tiny patio. After one diverted near-disaster involving a broom, a speed-record breaking drive back to the school, and a frantic Mr. Subzero leaping across the desks as he searched for the snake he was _positive _was loose in the classroom, Wriggles was back in her cozy cage.

Parker was grounded for five weeks and forbidden to go within ten feet of the cage for the rest of his school career. Still, as he walked through the door the next day, he saw Wriggles sitting proudly on her rock, head high as she stared in his direction. Three hours of freedom had done wonders for her disposition.

"You're welcome," he mouthed, giving her a wink.

If Wriggles had eyelids, Parker was convinced she would've winked back.


	2. Dimples (Parker)

**Dimples: or, the one where Parker uses toast as a means of seduction**

Everything about Ka-Pow! Comics was old, from faded movie posters plastering the walls to cereal-box toys lining the counter to the owner herself—Mrs. Bishop, who was nearly 84. It was the antiquity that drew in many of the store's few but loyal customers. Parker himself had taken one glimpse of the building's water-stained exterior when he was twelve and known that was where he was meant to be.

"Old" was a trademark of the small business, and age was the only reason that Mrs. Bishop's Flash clock hadn't been relocated to the trash yet. While Parker found the clock awesome, with it's lightning-bolt hands and centuries-worth of history, it did have a way of dominating the entire room. Even when Parker was occupied with helping a customer, the constant ticking flooded his ears. He suspected that Melanie's "breaks" were more out of a need to escape and recollect her sanity rather than a desire to smoke, like she claimed. Vinn _had _taken the batteries out, once, resulting in a half hour of blissful silence. Then Mrs. Bishop hobbled into the room and gave him a lecture that would have struck the fear in even the dastardliest villain.

Everyone who worked at Ka-Pow! Comics agreed that the clock was the most distracting part of the job. But to Parker, Codi's dimples came a close second.

"I get that you've had a burning hatred for _Yellow Lamplight_ since the reboot, but we _do _have to put the new issue on the shelf eventually."

Parker pulled his gaze away from where Codi was laughing with a customer, trying to forget how the fluorescent light shimmered on his coworker's light brown skin, and instead focused on reorganizing the display shelves in front of him.

"It's a tragedy that garbage like this gets rehashed when masterpieces like _Sling _don't even get a second glance," he said. Melanie gave him a knowing smirk and jerked her head towards the front.

"I don't think you've given it a second glance since Torres started, Zaleski. You've been nothing but heart eyes and longing sighs for the past three weeks. Just ask the boy out already and put us all out of our misery," she said.

"I did consider it about twenty minutes into our first shift together," Parker admitted. "But–"

"You chickened out," Melanie said, nodding. Parker shoved her shoulder, causing the comic book in his hand to wrinkle slightly. A loud laugh escaped him, rumbling up from his chest and bouncing around the room. He stifled the butterflies that arose when he saw Codi's head turn towards them.

"I was _not _going to be that creepy coworker who hits on someone before even knowing their last name. And maybe he isn't into men. And, for all I know, he could've been hiding some weird quirk behind that polite, dimpled, symmetrical face of his. I'd only met him that day—what if he was a freak? Harley told me about some she'd come across before she got married." Melanie roll her eyes, but Parker continued speaking. Anything to divert his attention from the fact that Codi was coming right towards them like a train that refused to be derailed_. _

_Stay cool, Parker, _he thought. _Like Mr. Freeze, but without the ice puns. Or the dying wife. You've got this._

"For example, the science tutor who was a genius but c-collected his own toenails. He kept them in a jar, Melanie. A _jar. _Of toenails. Who even–"

Parker cut off as a soft, amused voice interrupted. "I heard 'jar' and 'toenails'. Do I dare ask or should I slowly back away?"

"Parker was just telling me about how you might be a freak," Melanie said, and Parker held back a gasp. His brain whirled, formulating a plan for damage control, but then Codi looked directly at him and all comprehensive thought came to a screeching halt.

Sweat slicked his forehead, thankfully hidden by his mass of blond curls. The Flash clock ticked on, driving Parker's humiliation deeper with each passing second.

Codi opened his mouth, paused, and then snapped it shut again. The movement, combined with the sharp pain in his side as Melanie elbowed him, jostled Parker back into action.

He laughed again, but it came out strangled. "I was just saying how freak...freaking _fantastic _you are! Nothing but hard w-work," the word caught in his throat, and panic squirmed in his chest. _Not now. _"Hard work and...and the customers! The c-customers absolutely love you! Unlike Melanie. She drives them away. Must be the smell!" He ignored Melanie's offended "hey!" and patted Codi twice on the shoulder, then gave a sharp nod that made himself dizzy. "Good job! Ten stars!"

Feeling unsteady on his long legs, Parker smiled and paraded towards the front, sucking in deep breaths once his back was turned.

He drummed his fingers against the side of the register and tried to release some of the energy that sparked along his veins. What was _wrong _with him? He talked with cute people all the time—the girl who sat behind him in English with the lively green eyes, the frequent customer with the rose-shaped birthmark—but never had his nerves overrun him like that. He'd had crushes before. Hell, he'd had a _girlfriend _before. Why would Codi be any different?

"Parker!" He glanced up to see Codi wave at him as he prepared to leave for the day. "Thanks for the compliment!"

Parker gave a salute in return, but as he took in Codi's parting smile, his arm felt wobbly and disconnected from his body.

_Right, _he realized. _None one has dimples like those._

* * *

Melanie found him two days later, tucked in the corner by the figurines, arranging the _Planet Titans _action figures so that Neptune stood triumphantly over Milky Way. He'd never been a huge fan of the series, but he could relate to the way that the star-speckled villain laid prone on the shelf, twisted like the shattered fragments of his confidence.

_Actually, _Parker thought, momentarily breaking from the fog of doubt that encompassed him, _that's not a bad line. I'll have to write that down._

Melanie picked Milky Way up and repositioned him so that he sat upright. After a moment of silence, she said, "I'm sorry about what happened, the other day. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I just thought it'd spark a conversation."

"Mission accomplished. I talked to him." Parker wanted to ask her opinion on how she thought he should have handled the incident, but held himself back. He was supposed to be mad at her for a bit longer, even if all his anger had faded just a few hours after the incident. One of the characters from his current comic series was notorious for holding grudges and Parker needed to see just how long he himself could last.

"Yeah, but that was...rough." She winced. "First relationships can be difficult and I probably shouldn't have put you on the spot like that."

Parker blinked at her. Is _that _why she thought he was upset? His mouth twitched and he turned to face her. His grudge experiment could wait for another day. In all honesty, it had probably been doomed to begin with.

"I've been around the block a few times before. Hand-holding, date-asking, awkward eye contact, all that I've mastered. The problem is with Codi himself. I can be doing just fine and then he has to go and smile and _bam!" _Parker clapped his hands together, causing Melanie to jump and glare at him. "I get nervous and then my stupid brain shuts down and I get tripped up. And that's it. Game over. Your Parkermon has fainted."

"Okay," Melanie said, drawing the word out in thought. She was silent for a few seconds, and Parker itched to tap his foot. "Okay. I think what you need to do is have a game plan."

"Are we talking methods of attack or defense strategies? Because I did consider signing us all up for self-defense classes. It might help my twig arms bulk up a bit and I can't be distracted by his dimples if I'm besting him in hand-to-hand combat. Also, it might help you out with that weird professor who likes to stare."

Melanie frowned. "Yeah, that? We're not doing that. There will be no attacking involved. I just meant that you need to sit down and think things through—decide and practice what you are going to say. Come up with a list of steps to ask him on a date. I can help you get some plans in place right now if you'd like; it's not exactly like this place is overflowing with customers."

A nervous laugh escaped Parker, and he shook his head, feeling his curls bounce against his skin. "Thanks, Melanie, but I...I don't exactly do 'plans'."

"Hear me out. My brother once came up with the most convoluted plan to ask his ex-wife on a date. All it took was a beach and renting a few puppies. They were even married three weeks later."

"That soon?"

Melanie snorted. "Yeah, there's a reason she's his ex. Also why my mother refuses to fund his third wedding, but that's beside the point. Having a plan _worked _for him, and it will for you." She stared at him intently, and Parker scratched at his neck.

"Still thanks, but no. I like to think my best work is sp-spur of the moment."

"And how'd that work out for you last time?" Parker flinched, and Melanie sighed. "Alright, whatever. It was just a suggestion. I just know thinking ahead helps settle my nerves."

"But you can't get nerves if you don't give them enough time to form. Slice and dice them before they even have room to grow." Parker waved his hand. "Two days ago was just a fluke. We're working together on Friday; I'm sure I'll have built up a Codi-resistance by then."

Melanie shrugged. "Okay, Zaleski. But if you ever do ask him out, make sure it's after Mrs. Bishop's party on Sunday. I have a bet with Vinn and don't want to become an even poorer college student than I already am."

* * *

By Thursday night, Parker had finished the first draft of his comic book and felt as though his confidence levels had normalized. He'd even sketched Codi's dimples so many times that there was no way he could be caught off guard again. Throughout school the next day, excitement fizzed in his chest and he actually found himself looking forward to the afternoon.

Except as he walked through the door, Parker realized that he'd forgotten one small detail: even with dimple immunity, five hours was a _long _time to be trapped with one's crush, providing ample time for him to mess something up.

The store, as usual, was slow. There really was no need for two people to be working at a time, but Mrs. Bishop insisted on her workers doubling up to "prevent loneliness and strengthen workplace competitivity," whatever that meant. It was a nice sentiment, but it also meant that Parker would probably fail his geography assignment because the sheen of Codi's dark hair was more interesting than Atlin's mountain ranges.

Codi had finished his homework the hour previous and was flipping through a graphic novel. Besides their initial greetings, few words had been spoken between the two. Parker wouldn't quite say that they'd sat in silence, thanks to the Flash clock, but it was pretty close.

That's why he nearly fell off the stool when Codi spoke up, his voice even and laced with something Parker couldn't make out, although his dark eyes glinted mischievously.

"I could do better."

Parker nearly glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was the one Codi was speaking to, barely stopping himself as he remembered they were the only two there. "What?"

Codi placed the book on the counter and slid it over to Parker, tapping a finger against a splash page of a man being engulfed by red shadows. "This guy makes a deal with the devil for power."

At Codi's pause, Parker coughed and nodded. "S-seems normal to me."

"He could have asked for anything, _anything, _and what does he ask for? Super strength. There's a whole roster of abilities at his fingertips and he decides to go basic. I give him three more chapters before he's taken out by a poison dart."

Parker chuckled and slipped off the stool to examine the page more closely. "And I'm guessing you have a superpower that beats weightlifting 30,000 pounds?"

"Yes," Codi said, and his certainty caused Parker to blink. He tapped a finger to his chest. "Internal alarm clock. I decide a time the night before and can always wake up within five minutes of that chosen time, be it five or eleven in the morning."

Parker couldn't comprehend why anyone would actively choose to wake up at five, and he felt a small bit of his crush shrivel and die. But it wasn't enough to prevent him from flushing when he caught the scent of Codi's cologne.

Codi continued. "At the risk of sounding crazy here, I'm pretty sure everyone has a superpower."

He glanced up, and Parker realized how close he had been leaning over his shoulder. He straightened. "Oh?"

"It's subtle, but everyone has something they can do better than others. Like my alarm clock. Or Mrs. Bishop—she apparently has a hidden talent for Mario Kart, according to Vinn. Or take Melanie, who can parallel park perfectly regardless the size of the vehicle."

Parker grinned, absorbed in Codi's enthusiasm. "What about Vinn?"

"He times his jokes perfectly, even the knock-knock ones."

"And me?"

Codi paused, and Parker's face warmed.

_Stupid, _he admonished himself. _You aren't supposed to draw attention to yourself until you get this crush under control._

"I'm not sure, yet. It's not as obvious as the others. What do _you _think?"

Codi's gaze seemed to peel back Parker's skin, and despite towering almost a foot over him, Parker felt himself shrink. His brain lagged, and he grasped for words before it could completely ice over.

"Well, I don't...I'm not sure. Haven't really given much th-thought about it. Being able to eat as much ice cream as I wanted without get... getting sick would be great. Although I would have to spend a lot of m-money to really...to really…" Frustration slammed into Parker and the corners of his eyes burned. He squeezed them shut, forcing air into his lungs, but his mind still spiraled faster than he could keep up with.

He stumbled away from the counter and gave a strained smile. "I'm going to run to the bathroom. Be r-right back."

After locking the door behind him, he pressed his forehead to the mirror, willing himself to absorb its coolness as though that would stop him from looking like such an idiot.

Maybe Melanie was right. With his powers of improvisation on the fritz, taking things as they came wouldn't work with Codi. He needed a plan.

Parker leant back and gave his reflection a determined stare.

There were two days before the party. Two days to go home, make a plan, ask Codi out, and then (depending on the answer) he could either start brainstorming date ideas or sit at home and test if he really did have unlimited ice cream-eating powers.

Feeling calmer, Parker smiled; he was getting a hang of this planning thing already!

"No problem," he said, enjoying the way the words echoed in the small space.

* * *

There were problems. Many, many problems. It didn't matter what idea Parker came up with, the longer he looked at it, the more complications he found. Discarded plans piled around him, mocking him in the form of crumpled papers and dull pencils.

It was Sunday morning, and Parker was pretty sure his butt had morphed with the chair. His parents had barricaded themselves in their bedroom to protect against his anguished rants, only emerging to make sure he ate something and didn't physically waste away, although his brain was long gone. Parker couldn't even bring himself to enjoy his mother's homemade strawberry shortcake. There was only an hour to go before he had to leave, and he felt even less prepared than he'd been on Friday.

Skin smeared with graphite, and thoughts twisted into an incomprehensible mess, Parker did the only thing he could: he pressed his face into his hands and screamed.

He was still in that position when Harley entered the room. He heard her pause at the doorway—no doubt taking in the stationary devastation he'd caused—before she walked over and tousled his hair.

"Having fun?" She asked.

"Life is meaningless. It matters not how much one has prepared or planned, we all die in the end." Parker grumbled.

"Nihilism's not a good look for you," Harley said. The chair next to Parker screeched as she dragged it away from the table and sat. She pulled his shortcake to her and ate a bite. Then she grabbed one of his papers and took in the half-done sketches on it. "New project?"

Parker sighed and dragged his hands down his face. "Nope. I'm trying to come up with a way to show Codi that I'm interesting and thought that sketching it out visually would help. It didn't." He gestured to the makeshift paper tablecloth around him. "As you can see."

Harley's mouth twitched, but she was kind enough to hold back her laugh. "I can. What I can't see is _you, _of all people, stressing about something like this. You usually just go for it." She squinted at the paper in her hand. "What in all of Illéa would you need a metal capsule for?"

"A hidden message. I was going to go early and sneak it into his piece of cake, but then I got thinking, 'what if he chokes'? Or even w-worse, what if I put it in the wrong piece and _Mrs. Bishop_ chokes and dies? I'd be out of a job and none of us can afford to be sued anyway and I don't want to accidentally kill...kill someone just because I got a little tongue-tied and couldn't act like a n-normal person around someone I liked." Parker's chest heaved. He fidgeted with his hands as his words increased in speed. "So then I was going to ask if he wanted to go for a walk with me after the p-party but then I got thinking of the crime rate. Mugging wouldn't look good for a first date. And Melanie men...mentioned the beach but Denbeigh has no b-beaches and–"

"Hey!" Harley ducked her head, forcing him to make eye contact with her. "Let's slow down. Breath in, and out. We have all the time in the world, okay?" Parker forced a nod, following Harley's breathing until the sharp edge of his worry had eased slightly.

"There we go," she said. She frowned. "This is really important to you, huh? I haven't seen you this worked up in years."

Parker sighed. "I just want to impress him. And Melanie said I needed to be more p-prepared and I just," he groaned and slammed his head against the table. "I started overthinking it."

Harley smiled. "If you want my advice—which you should, it really is the best—I think you should do the tried-and-true Parker technique and just tell him you like him, then say he has fifteen minutes before you kidnap him for mini golf. You're decent-enough looking you might be able to get away with it. And if he can't accept that, then you just haven't found someone cool enough for you yet."

"Mini golf would never, in a hundred years, be my first choice," Parker said. He mirrored Harley's smile. "But maybe."

"So," Harley said. She leaned forward so that her blond hair spilled into her face, although it didn't hide the glint in her eyes. "Tell me about this Codi."

Parker couldn't help the way his smile grew. "He's the new guy at Ka-pow. He's really laid-back and soft-spoken but he's got these _dimples _and he just lights up whenever he's happy." Parker's own heart wiggled happily at the thought.

"That's disgustingly cute. I ship it."

"And he has this interesting theory that _everyone _has an 'everyday superpower'. Like you. You have this st-stalkerish tendency to show up when I'm overthinking and…" Parker frowned. "Why _are_ you here?"

Harley's smile melted. A heaviness dripped into the room, sending chills along Parker's skin. "Tyce is going in for some more tests tomorrow. I was going to come borrow some of your old kid books that we can read while we wait. He's already grown bored of his."

Concern for his nephew gnawed at Parker's chest, and he launched from his chair. He raced to his room, grabbed a binder off his desk, then thundered back into the kitchen and thrust it in Harley's hands.

"First draft of the first issue of _The Unnatural_," he explained. "Thought Tyce could have to honor of being the first one to read it."

She opened the binder and leafed gently through the laminated pages. Slipping it into her bag with her one arm, she reached over with her other and pulled him into a brief hug. "He'll love this. Sometimes I swear you can read minds, Park."

"No thanks. I don't need to be traumatized by what's going on in your mind," Parker scoffed. "Is...is there anything else I can do?"

"Not unless you want to cook dinner for us tonight. I'm not feeling it."

"Sure," Parker said. "Hope you like toast."

Harley laughed, an airy sound that brought some light back into the room. "I might actually take you up on that. Your toast is somehow better than the few gourmet meals I've had."

Parker froze. An idea trickled into his mind, growing in ferocity and power until it burst and flooded him with clarity. He glanced at the clock. There was twenty minutes left until the party, not much time.

_But I've done more with less, _Parker thought.

"Harley, you're a genius!" he said. He bombarded her with a hug so tight her ribs seemed to bend and she groaned, before he whirled around, grabbed something from the counter, and bolted out the door.

It was like the stars had realigned and brought Parker's instincts back to him. Finally, he knew what he needed to do.

* * *

"Why do you have a toaster?"

"The question, Melanie," Parker said as he placed said appliance on the kitchen counter. "Is why _wouldn't _I have a toaster?"

Melanie sputtered, sending orange punch cascading from her mouth back into her paper cup. "Um, maybe because we are at a _birthday _party? And I'm afraid if Mrs. Bishop ate something that hard her teeth would shatter."

"Well then it's good thing we aren't eating the toaster."

"I meant the toast, Zaleski."

"Dear lord, I'm only 84. It's like you're expecting me to croak any second," Mrs. Bishop said as she shambled through the doorway. Three party hats of various colors protruded from her wispy gray hair. She turned a skeptical eye to Parker but patted a leathery hand on his arm in welcome. "Parker, Vinn finally stopped crying and turned the game console back on. Come join us so I can thrash you on Rainbow Road and maintain my title as Kart Queen."

"Can you hold your road rage for a minute, Mrs. Bishop?" Parker asked. "I need to talk to Codi."

"Oh!" Mrs. Bishop rolled her eyes and waved her hand towards the door. "He's hiding."

"No, I had to change." Codi's voice drifted into the kitchen and was shortly followed by Codi himself. Compared to everyone else, who had dressed up in jeans and t-shirts, Codi looked sharp. His shirt was a simple button down, but it was enough of a change (and a nice change, at that) for Parker to take notice. What really caught his attention, though, was the light blue tie that dangled from his hands.

Codi followed his gaze, and with a soft smile, held the tie up and shook it in Mrs. Bishop's direction. "This woman is scary. She nearly strangled me after I accidently bumped her off the road."

"Maybe I will accidently end your employment," Mrs. Bishop muttered, before she tilted her head and turned to Parker. "Now, what's this about a toaster?"

"Finally," Melanie said. "Really, Parker. This is odd. Even for you."

Everyone's eyes were on him, but Parker focused on particular set of brown. "I've been thinking about what you said, about subtle super powers. And I finally figured...figured mine out."

"Really?" Codi said, surprise imbued in his voice and features. A flicker of doubt crossed Parker's mind, but he forced himself to breath, focusing on the way air expanded in his chest. Placing a bag on the counter, he pulled out bread, butter, and a large assortment of spreads.

"_This _toaster," He said, slapping the dull metallic surface. "Is over twenty years old and hates anything that breathes. It nearly caught on fire once when my sister used it. For years, no one in my family d-dared to touch it because they thought it couldn't be tamed. For years, there was no toast in the Zaleski household. Then I came along."

"Your not-so-super power is making toast?" Melanie said, voice drier than unbuttered bread. But when Parker glanced at her, she peeked once over at Codi and gave him a thumbs up. Parker stuck his tongue out at her.

"I can make the perfect piece of toast, every time. No m-matter the circumstances."

"Better be some damn good bread."

"My toast is not...not just food. It is an e-experience that few have the pleasure of experiencing." In an exaggerated motion, he pulled out two slices of bread and placed them in the toaster. Codi had a hand over his mouth, but his eyes seemed to shimmer at Parker's dramatic actions, regardless of the stutter. Parker let himself smile, fueling all the adrenaline and excitement he could into it.

An hour later, after everyone had marveled over the perfect crispness of the bread and the unnaturally even distribution of the butter, Parker found himself alone with Codi. Everyone else had gone back to the living room. Even Mrs. Bishop had been so impressed with his abilities that she saved him from being turned into Mario Kart roadkill.

"So," Codi said, taking his last bite of toast. "You've never made a bad piece of toast before? _Never_?"

Parker leaned against the counter, feeling vibrations run up his arms as he bounced his leg. "Well, that one time where it almost caught on fire? Um, that...that wasn't my sister."

Codi didn't laugh like Parker expected, and instead tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, we can't be perfect all the time; every hero has his kryptonite."

"Like cute coworkers with dimples?"

In the silence that followed, Parker realized that those words had indeed come from his mouth. A part of him wanted to grab them from the air and swallow them again, pretend they had never happened, but it was quickly smothered by eager anticipation. This wasn't how he'd planned it to go down, but it felt _right. _He met Codi's eyes head on, waiting for a reply.

"Parker," Codi said, once the words seemed to sink in. "Are you...are you trying to seduce me?"

_Seduction is a strong word, _Parker thought, trying not to twitch. Catching Codi's interest and maybe phone number had been closer to the goal, but he'd take what he could get.

"It's working, right?" Parker said, the words more a question than a statement.

Codi leaned forward, and then smiled. Light streamed through the window and caught on his dimples.

"Well," he said, "Lucky for you, my kryptonite happens to be the perfect piece of toast. So I would have no choice but to say yes if you were to ask me to that documentary on Golden Age comics this Thursday."

Every fiber of Parker screamed for him to yell "yes" and tackle Codi in a hug, but he could only muster a goofy grin and say, "Y-yeah. Okay."

"Looking forward to it." Codi grabbed his hand and gave it a brief squeeze, before he turned red and, with a gentle smile, backed slowly out of the room.

Parker leaned against the counter, dazed. He almost missed Vinn's cheer and Melanie's call of "Dammit, Zaleski! You couldn't have waited a day?", even though there was no real bite behind the words.

His hand tingled along with the excitement buzzing through his entire body.

Although documentaries were usually pretty...dry, in Parker's experience, he felt nothing but confidence. He was Parker Zaleski; he'd find a way to liven it up.

And if all else failed, dimples had already proven to be a sufficient distraction.

* * *

**A/N:** It happened again. *Casually changes title*

To anyone who made it all the way through this mess, you are my hero.


	3. In the Spaces Between (Cami)

**A/N:**

Any other snippets I write are probably going to be about Parker, but I wanted to practice writing a more experimental, reflective piece than I'm used to and Camilla was better suited for that. Shockingly enough, Cami is also from GreenWithAwesome's _The Selection and the Spy _universe. There are portions that allude to some **major** spoilers for TSaTS, so if you haven't read it yet turn around and do that first. I promise you won't regret it. Unless you plan on just reading this regardless in which case go ahead, you rebel, you.

Enjoy this angsty 11k character study (I, too, wish that this was a joke. Feel free to take an intermission—or five)! Or don't! Either way this exists now!

* * *

**In the Spaces Between**

**.10.**

**Hubble's Law: the description of the expansion of the universe according to which the more distant a galaxy lies from us, the faster it is moving away **

Raindrops patter softly against the glass. Camilla thinks they look a bit lost, with the way they linger on the window before the wind buffets the side of the house and nudges them downward. She taps her finger behind one particularly stubborn drop to help it along. It wavers but doesn't budge, and she gives a frustrated huff.

She knows she should be sleeping. Once, when she didn't feel tired, her dad played the music box and they twirled around the room until her stomach felt funny and she giggled herself to sleep. Her music box is back in her real room, though, and Camilla doesn't want to dance to the rain.

Aunt Ammy told her to count sheep, but her head feels too busy to imagine some tonight. So she counts raindrops instead. She only knows how to count to six, but that's usually enough to pass the time. Her mom always says that the more sixes she counts, the closer they will be to wherever they are going.

A bright flash from the road catches her attention, and she leans forward so that her head bumps against the cool glass. Her grip tightens on the windowsill as the chair wobbles beneath her. Below, the headlights grow closer, filling her entire bedroom with a ghostly white light. Excitement expands in her chest only to deflate as the car speeds past the driveway, leaving only the burnt orange streetlights to cast shadows on the sidewalk. Camilla doesn't like the shadows; they stretch towards her like they're mad she won't come out and play with them.

Aunt Ammy said this room has the best view, and that nothing can reach her from here, but Camilla just wants to go home. The window to her room back home has a lilac bush outside of it, and the purple blossoms are a lot softer than the rough shingles that slope below her. Her mom doesn't like the bush—said that the smell was too strong. Camilla misses the scent, even if it did make her nose itch.

She misses her mom, too. And her dad. She's never stayed at Aunt Ammy and Uncle Jefferson's house for so long before. But her parents _always _come to pick her up after sleepovers, so Camilla stays stubbornly by the window. If she waits up long enough, maybe her dad will come and tell her to go to sleep because "a sleepy Cami makes for a grumpy Cami and Grumpy Cami isn't very fun, now is she?"

There's a clatter from downstairs that makes Camilla jump, and she stares at the door. She doesn't want Uncle Jefferson to see her awake. He doesn't smile very much lately, and if he sees that she isn't in bed he'll frown at her. Camilla doesn't like that frown. It makes her feel small.

She's three years old now, and her dad says that three-year-olds are big girls. She doesn't want to feel little.

She gives one last glance out the window, before sliding off the chair and pulling herself back on the bed. She can count the raindrops from here. Maybe if she counts to six enough times, her parents will be close enough to take her home.

**.9.**

**Blackbody: a theoretical perfect radiator of light that absorbs and reemits all radiation incident upon it; its light output depends only on its temperature**

For as small as her cousin is, Camilla isn't sure how Niel can make so much noise. His screams ricochet through the hallways, slither beneath her door and rattle against her brain. She squeezes her eyes shut and slams her face into the pillow, only to surface moments later to gasp for air.

The screams seem to be even louder than they were before. Camilla sits up as concern sinks into her body.

When he was a tiny baby, Niel used to scream all the time. Aunt Ammy had told her that it was normal, since screaming was the only way that he could communicate. But now Niel's two, able to communicate in basic sentences, and tears build in Camilla's eyes as she thinks about why he would be sobbing so hard.

She can hear her aunt and uncle moving towards his room. Something clatters as Uncle Jefferson trips and says a word that she's not supposed to repeat.

Camilla wrings her hands together and chews at her lip. She's supposed to stay in bed and rest—especially after the beach trip—but it's been weeks since then and her lungs feel a lot stronger now. It's not like she wants to fall asleep again anyway; bedtime isn't as fun when her dreams are mean to her.

After a time, the screaming stops and is replaced by sniffling and coughing.

She grabs a cream-colored blanket, patterned with little birds, from her bed. It's soft to the touch and always helps her feel better, so maybe it can do the same for Niel. Mind made up, Camilla eases out of bed and pads towards the door.

Only Aunt Amelia is in the room when she enters. She's rocking Niel back and forth, his face pressed into her shoulder, but she looks up as Camilla enters.

"Cami, it's alright. I'm sorry he woke you. Go back to bed, hon," she says.

"Niel sounds like he's hurt," Camilla says. She stops a few feet away, clutching her blanket. Niel is quiet now, but his small body shakes, and Camilla's voice wobbles as fear for her cousin takes hold. "What's wrong with him?"

Aunt Amelia holds her arm out, and Camilla curls into her side.

"They're called night terrors. It just means he'll scream for a bit, and it sounds frightening, but he'll be okay. He'll grow out of them."

Camilla is silent for a moment. She places a hand on his back, feeling it rise and fall gently as he is dragged back into sleep. The blanket seems like a silly idea, now that she knows Niel is locked in his own dreams. She thinks of the plastic, glow-in-the dark stars on her ceiling that always help with her own nightmares. They remind her of where she is when she first wakes, drag her away from murky water and into a soft green skyscape.

"He needs stars," she says.

Aunt Amelia gives a low chuckle just as Uncle Jefferson walks into the room with a steaming mug of warm milk.

"Why isn't she in bed?" he says. Camilla takes in his tousled hair and loose clothing, marveling at how soft sleep makes him look.

"She was just checking on Niel, Jeff."

"He'll be fine. I'll take her back to her room." He hands the mug to Aunt Amelia, then presses a hand to Camilla's back to steer her out the door. Without lights, the dark hallway looms ahead of her. She shivers.

He says little as Camilla climbs back on her bed, and she knows he expects her to go back to sleep, but she's shaking too hard to calm down. Worry crawls through her like spiders running down her spine, and she doesn't want him to leave. The nightmares find her easier when she's alone.

"Uncle," she says. She almost asks him for a hug, but his face in blank, so she settles with a quiet, "I'm too scared to sleep."

Silence swells between them and Camilla tries not to cry again. Finally, he sighs and kneels by her bed.

"I'll tell you a story, but only if you can stay still."

"How?" She tugs the blanket tight around her, but it does little to hide that way that her body still quivers.

"I'll show you," He says, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Take that worry and fear and redirect it here–" he points at her stomach with his free hand. "Store it away where it won't bother you. _You_ must control it, y_ou _must tell it where to go, or else it will control you."

She swallows, not sure that she fully understands what he is saying, but closes her eyes. His hand makes her feel safe, reminds her of when he pulled her out of the ocean, so she tries. She imagines gathering up her anxiety and squishing it into a ball, then tucking it away in her chest. The ball seems to expand, filling the spaces between her ribs and heart and stomach with a heavy fog, but when she opens her eyes her trembles have subsided. Uncle Jefferson is smiling slightly.

Camilla fights the urge to fidget. "What if it gets out?"

"It won't," he says, "If you trap it well enough. Now, what story do you want to hear?"

Her stomach still feels sick, but the promise of hearing one of his myths helps. "The one with Raven and light, please."

She tries to keep her eyes open as he speaks, but her blanket swallows her in a cocoon of warmth. The room grows fuzzy, and the last thing she hears before she slips into darkness is the rumble of her Uncle's voice as he describes cunning tricksters and boxes filled with galaxies.

**.8.**

**Eclipse: the phenomenon of one body passing in front of another, cutting off its light**

The excitement Camilla had felt at the beginning of the fundraising dinner—sparked by the pretty lights and large arches that made up Belcourt University's Grand Hall—faded a while ago. Crisp music and chatter fill the room, but sleepiness brought on by the late hour has put a soft edge on everything. Her surroundings start to blur and Camilla shuffles slightly. The tired ache in her feet grows, but it prevents her from drifting away as the world outside grows darker and darker.

Uncle Jefferson stands in front of her, nodding along to something his associate says, all straight lines and sharp eyes. It keeps Camilla from leaning against him like she wants to, causes her to straighten her own spine instead.

Adults talk a lot, she thinks. There aren't many children her age here; the youngest she's seen was a teenage boy who was at least five years her senior. For a minute, she wishes she was back home with Niel, decked in her flannel pajamas and trying to find new ways to make Sadie giggle.

There's an annoying voice in the back of her mind that tells her she should be thankful to attend adult events, be proud of how _mature _that makes her. Maybe she would be, if adults didn't make everything so long_._

She wonders if the prince is always this bored. He'd have to be, if he was doing this all the time.

She's staring at someone's watch face, mesmerized at how time can move so excruciatingly slow, when a hand clasps her shoulder. Her uncle's stringent tone pulls her to the present.

"Yes, this is my niece, Camilla."

Then she's standing in front of her uncle with every nerve urging her to take a step backward. Any drowsiness evaporates under the heat of curious stares. There are four of them, all academics who use complicated words and move with confidence, and Camilla feels childish in her mint green dress and curled ponytail.

The pressure on her shoulder increases—a warning not to let the silence drag on too long—and Camilla pushes down her nerves and tilts her chin up. She can't embarrass her uncle; he trusted her enough to bring her here, and she can't let him down.

"Hello," she says. "It's nice to meet you."

Soft laughter and amused smiles ripple through the circle. A lady wearing a blazer and bright lipstick bends towards her. "Well, aren't you polite," she says.

Camilla answers their questions, carefully combing through her replies like she's been taught: she's nine years old but will be ten in March, yes she gets along with her cousins well (or, as well as she can with a five and two-year-old), and no, she doesn't have plans for the future but she thinks she might want to teach just like her uncle.

The words feel awkward in her mouth and it takes all her focus not to stumble over them, but the weight of her uncle's hand encourages her. She schools her face to mirror his, attentive but careful not to give her thoughts away. _Don't overstep. If you aren't showing control, then you are showing weakness, _he'd said to her. And weakness, she remembers, reflects on the entire family.

She's not sure how her urges to doodle on napkins or spin along to the upbeat songs are weaknesses, but that doesn't matter; all that matters is that's how her uncle sees them.

Camilla only wants to make him proud.

She risks a glance up and meets his gaze. His eyes, despite being colored dark brown like hers, are like steel. There's no outward sign that he approves of her performance, but at least the disapproval that twists her insides and makes it hard to swallow isn't there either.

("You did adequate tonight, Camilla," Uncle Jefferson tells her later, during the ride home. There's little warmth to the sentence, no sign of pride, but Camilla supposes that she can count it as a compliment.

It doesn't feel as good as it should).

**.7.**

**Nova: a star that has a sudden outburst of energy, temporarily increasing its luminosity**

She's twelve, which is old enough to know that it's probably all in her head. There isn't actually something beckoning to her from the outside, and if there was, she likes to think she has enough common sense to stay inside where it is safe. She's smart enough to know that sneaking out of the house in the dead of night is a monumentally stupid idea. But twelve, she reasons, is still on the fringes of childhood and thereby gives her a good excuse to ignore her common sense, just this once.

It takes her a few tries before she can successfully grasp the flashlight tucked in the corner of her desk drawer. It's even longer before she's able to pull her shoes on. They fall from her shaking hands twice, and she has to pause each time to watch the door and make sure the muffled thuds didn't wake her uncle.

Her palms are slick against the window frame. The cool wood beneath her skin is almost soothing, giving her something to focus on other than her nerves. It squeaks in protest as she eases it open, as though screaming at her for what she's about to do.

Which, fair enough. She's close to screaming herself.

Free climbing is risky enough as it is. She's slipped, fallen, gained various scrapes and bruises, and, once, she broke her arm. It's nothing short of a miracle that her aunt and uncle haven't caught on to her hobby yet. Guilt at lying to them still hovers beneath the surface, but she's been doing it for a few years now and it's a little late to turn back. What started as a tiny spark she felt climbing the tree in her backyard had grown until it became a searing desire to feel the burn in her muscles as she climbed higher and higher, channeling every bit of stress and pressure into the wood or brick beneath fingers so that, for a few moments, she can doesn't have to bottle it in. She's long since concluded that the risk is worth it.

Her climbing exploits, however, have only taken place in the day while her family is gone or otherwise distracted—about every few days. Not as frequent as Camilla would like, which leads to her current dilemma. It's been weeks since she's had an opportunity to slip away, and while she wouldn't say she's desperate, she's coming pretty close.

Climbing is one thing, hiding it is another, but sneaking out of the house to do said climbing is something else entirely.

She's better than this. _I expected more _reverberates through her head, the frequent presence of Uncle Jefferson's deep tone vibrating through her body and pulling her chest tight. The words are enough for her to yank the window up completely. There is an itch beneath her skin and Camilla can't wait until the morning to scratch it.

Summer heat tickles her face and dark strands of hair shift restlessly against her neck. The night buzzes with anticipation.

In a practiced move, she pulls herself onto the roof tiles. The rough surface is familiar—it's not the first time she's laid out here at night, letting herself drown in the inky sky and stars—but she pushes herself farther. Using the grooves of the house and the storm pipe, she inches towards the ground until she is low enough to drop onto the lawn.

Grass crumples beneath her feet and she hesitates, holding her breath as though releasing it would trigger the windows to come alive with light. The house doesn't seem to care.

She feels dizzy (and guilty, always guilty), but she doesn't necessarily hate the freedom attached to the way that she slinks over the fence and into the neighbor's yard. It's equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

_Addicting, _she thinks, but she quickly shoves that thought aside. This can't happen again, despite it feeling like the first time she can actually breathe in a while.

One hour, Camilla promises herself, and she'll go back to what she's supposed to be: the disciplined girl who can't afford to bow under the weight of expectation. But until then, there is a crabapple tree in Mr. Schuyler's yard that has been all but begging her to climb it.

She'd hate to leave it waiting.

**.6.**

**Binary Star: a system of two stars that revolve around a common center of mass, or around each other**

"Markus!"

Her voice is strained, barely hiding the squeal that threatens to bubble from her chest and into the winter air. She clings to the chains of the swing so tightly that the metal seems to cut through her gloves and into her hands.

It's hard to clamp down on her emotions. Her giddiness is slippery, and now is not the time or place to let it out. The park, while large, is still surrounded by houses and they're going to wake someone if they aren't careful. Everything blurs as she swings wildly, but she can still make out the sly grin plastered to Markus' face as he gives her another shove. She knows by now that that her efforts to persuade him are pointless. Still, she tries.

"Markus, stop. Serious–" Her words erupt into a shriek as she flies higher, coming nearly parallel to the bar on top of the swing set. Using the momentum, she propels herself off the seat. There's a rush of wind that chills her face, a jarring that resonates up her legs as she lands, then the world flips as she slips and hits the ground.

She rolls to a stop in a pile of muddy slush and woodchips, blinking dazedly at the stars above. Through the haze, she hears Markus curse. He scrambles towards her.

"Cami! I–" He curses again and his face comes into her field of vision. "You were supposed to hang on!"

Once the world snaps back into place, Camilla can't hold it back anymore; she flings her arm over her eyes, laughing so hard that if the neighbors weren't awake before, they certainly are now.

"The hell…" Markus mutters. He prods her side where her ribs are starting to ache, not used to prolonged amounts of laughter. Camilla works to slow the heaving of her chest. Giving another gasp or two, she finally manages to uncover her eyes.

Markus looks more amused than concerned now, blue eyes glinting even in the darkness.

"I think you hit your head on the way down," he says. "Because you never laugh."

"What? Of course I do."

"Not like that."

Camilla sits up and works to brush back the long hair that's tangled around her face. "And now you know why. I'm sure you found my snorting all kinds of attractive."

"Hottest thing I've ever seen." He might just have something in his eye, but Camilla's pretty sure he winks at her.

Heat rises to her cheeks, and although Camilla might have a (minuscule, really) crush on Markus, she ignores the comment and thrusts a hand towards him.

Markus grabs it and pulls her up the rest of the way, raises an eyebrow as she favors her sore side, and says, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Camilla snorts again, sending a cloud of white breath into the chilled air. "I've fallen from worse heights than that," she says with a dismissive wave at the swing set. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have jumped."

In the comfortable silence that follows, she fumbles her phone out of her coat pocket, light washing over her face as she checks the time. Markus glances at it and sighs.

"Pumpkin time, Cinderella?"

Camilla gives a slow exhale and nods. She reaches for her bag, but Markus scoops it off the ground before she can and slings it over his shoulder. "I'll walk you home."

The night seems to drop ten degrees, sucking all warmth from Camilla's chest.

"No, you won't," she says. It's difficult to keep her voice steady.

"Come on, Cami. We've known each other, what? Two years now? I've got to meet your family some time." At her silence, he sighs and passes back her bag. "Or do you only interact with your friends through midnight rendezvous?"

His voice is teasing, but there's something laced at the edges. Pity, maybe. Or frustration. It makes Camilla want to reach out and hug him, but guilt holds her back.

Camilla has other friends—Markus is the only one she hangs out with in secret—but the difference is that her other friends already know about her home life. They're used to her uncle and his detached mannerisms. Markus, on the other hand, is like the sun. A little painful if you are around him for too long, but passionate and fiery in ways that Camilla's family is not.

At least here, in the dark, she can pretend that she's warm too. That she shines just as bright as he does. The idea of showing him her usual facade—which is lukewarm, at the most—is an embarrassing one.

Someday she'll be unable to avoid it; he'll take one look at her and her uncle and see that she's not good enough. But that isn't today. Instead, she forces a smile and says, "I don't think our meetups are as scandalous as 'midnight rendezvous' suggest."

Her teasing seems to chase away his concern, and he leans in close enough that Camilla can imagine his breath on her face.

"You know how we fix that?"

"How?" Her voice comes out casual, but if Markus' smirk is any indication, her face isn't as calm as she wants it to be. She could shutter it up, if she wanted to. Let it go blank as she stuffs her emotions deep down, leaving them to fester and obsess over later, but she finds she doesn't want to. The fluttering in her chest is exciting, and she selfishly allows herself to enjoy the thrill racing through her body.

"A date," Markus says, pulling away. "During the day, when I can actually see your face. Stroll through a museum or two, maybe even get some hot chocolate after. There's hardly anything scandalous about that."

"I–" Camilla searches for words but can't seem to find them. She wants to go, she really does. Markus is cute and lively, and most girls her age have had their first kiss, or at least held hands with a boy (Camilla doesn't think her cousins count). But…

"I'm not sure about this," she says. "I have a lot going on, with homework, and watching my cousins, and looking into future career paths. Besides, my uncle–"

She cuts off, because that's really what it boils down to. Her tutor only gives her busywork, her cousins are old enough they pretty much watch themselves, and she's known she's wanted to be an architect since she was fourteen and fell in love with the balustrade of the city offices building. The only thing actually standing in the way is Uncle Jefferson, who wouldn't take her slacking off on responsibilities just to pursue a relationship lightly.

"He doesn't have to know," Markus says, pulling her from her thoughts. She gives him a weak glare, but his smile is captivating, excitement etched in every line on his face. "Come on, Cam. It's just one little date. What your uncle doesn't know won't hurt him, you'll get to live a little, and I'll finally leave the house at a decent time. Everyone wins!"

Her lip is bleeding, Camilla realizes as she chews on it nervously. The sting and tang of blood must be some sort of warning. Everything inside her is screaming that this idea is all kinds of bad. But Markus seems confident, and she's tempted to do something terrifying like kiss him.

Her face feels too frozen right now, though, and hot chocolate _does _sound nice.

"Okay," she says, and her smile comes just a little easier. "Let's give it a try."

**.5.**

**White Dwarf: a small, dense star that has exhausted its nuclear fuel and shines from residual heat**

The sink rattles as water gushes from the tap, causing Camilla to lurch off her chair in surprise. In the scramble, her foot hooks the chair leg and she barely catches herself in time, earning her a concerned look from Aunt Amelia. She has to blink at the kitchen tiles a few times to chase away the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"Cami! I'm so sorry! I thought you heard me to come in."

"No, no. It's fine. I was just–" She gestures to the papers scattered across the table. "I guess I was concentrating a little _too _hard."

"I shouldn't be surprised. But it's almost midnight, hon. Can't it wait until morning?" Aunt Amelia says. She shakes her head fondly, but her gaze is locked on Camilla's hands, which are still clenched around the table's edge, knuckles pale.

Camilla wretches her hands away, clasping them together to hide their tremor. She hasn't gotten much sleep the past couple nights, and she should probably slow down, but she can't bring herself to crawl into bed just yet. If she keeps her hands busy, it's a lot easier to ignore the whirling thoughts in her brain.

"I'm going to turn in soon. I just want to finish the measurements for this room." She gives a tired smile, hoping it will be enough to ease her aunt's concern.

Aunt Amelia hesitates, but laughs softly. "I'd offer to help, but I think I'll leave the blueprinting to the master."

She fills another glass with water and places it in front of Camilla, then leans forward and presses a quick kiss to her hair. Camilla fights the urge to lean into it. While she's happy that the law firm is flourishing, she misses her aunt's steadying presence. A lump forms in her throat, nearly choking her, and she can't do anything but nod when her aunt walks out of the room with a gentle command to get some sleep.

Taking a sip of water, Camilla turns back to the crude sketch in front of her. It isn't one of her original ideas, just a floor plan of the house and ways in which the layout could be better utilized. Not very impressive, or groundbreaking, but it provides a good distraction. Or, it did, until Aunt Amelia's unintentional interruption.

Her focus feels scattered, buried under the image of her uncle's stoic face as he went through her schoolwork—the papers with rather high remarks Camilla had handpicked herself, hoping to get a reaction. He hadn't said anything, but he didn't need to. Discontent had bled from his eyes, was evident in the subtle turn of his head.

The message was clear: not good enough_. _

Camilla taps her pencil against the table a few times. The graphite smear on her hand shines even in poor kitchen lighting. It was _never _enough. _She _was never–

Heavy pressure builds in her chest, pushing its way up until her eyes prickle. Camilla presses her palms into her eyes, fighting to control her breathing as bright spots dance in front of her.

_This is your fault_, she reminds herself. She'd broken her uncle's trust after the Markus debacle, almost a year ago. Admittedly, he'd never been the most affectionate before, but there had been moments where the harsh lines around his eyes would soften, just slightly. Sometimes she thought she'd come close to getting him to smile, on the days where Aunt Amelia was home and her uncle was a little less rigid. Now, no amount of apologizing, no amount of pushing herself to follow every one of his requests, seems good enough to bring that trust back.

She looks up just as the clock crawls from 12:00 to 12:01, officially dragging her into the next day.

It should give her comfort, knowing that she has the chance to try again. But it's hard to maintain that spark of determination in her foggy brain.

There's scuffling from behind her, and Camilla swipes away the moisture that had gathered on her eyelashes before turning around, expecting to see her aunt. She'd probably come back to return her empty glass, or maybe physically drag Camilla to bed herself. Instead, she sees Niel, dressed in exercise shorts and a t-shirt that reads "I need my space" in large letters. He has a blanket thrown across his shoulder that sways slightly with each movement. He barely gives her a glance as he grabs a bag of chips and says, "Unplaster your butt from that chair and come on."

Camilla blinks at his retreating back. She really should get back to work, maybe brainstorm some more ideas to get back on Uncle Jefferson's good side. Tired curiosity wins out, though, and she follows Niel out the back door where she finds him spreading the blanket across the lawn.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you out of your own head," Niel says. He pats the blanket next to him. He carries that air of indifference that he had taken on when he'd turned a teenager, like he's too cool for his family, even though his words and actions say otherwise. Camilla suppresses an eyeroll, but still nudges his arm affectionately as she lies down beside him.

"Bedtime was a few hours ago." She snatches a chip from the bag and points it at him. "Uncle Jefferson established curfew for a reason, you know."

Niel snorts. "Father isn't home and all the interesting stuff comes out at night. Besides, I'm not a baby, unlike Sadie and York."

"Because 13 is _so _much older than ten and nine."

Niel doesn't dignify her with a reply. Instead, he points to the sky above them and says, "Over there is Calvera, the closest neutron star to Earth. Did you know that neutron stars spin over 700 times per second?"

He rambles on, and Camilla becomes aware of just how exhausted she is. She sinks back into the blanket and lets her head drift against his shoulder. It's hard not to get caught up in the relief of being able to snark with her cousin without restraint, of not having to worry about anything except keeping up with the facts he spouts off.

She wishes she could do this all the time.

Tears pool in her eyes, and she lets a few drops wander down her cheek before she brushes them away. The wet trails dry quickly.

She's tempted to let it all go—open up and share her frustration—but Niel is contently gazing at the sky and talking about the logistics of the first spacecraft, and she doesn't want to place that burden on him. He and the rest of the cousins are under enough pressure as it is, and she can tell that stargazing is as much for him as it is for her. So she takes a shaky breath and pushes her feelings deeper below the surface, pretending that they don't bug her, eliminating the impression that something needs to change.

She is composed. Unassuming. Self-controlled.

This is who she is, she tells herself. This is who she needs to be.

**.4.**

**Black Dwarf: the cold remains of a white dwarf after all its thermal energy has been exhausted**

Her name is called on the Capitol Report and Camilla is falling and drowning all at once. Both are sensations that she is familiar with, but that doesn't make them any less startling.

She hasn't been feeling much these days, but the minute "Camilla Daugherty of Belcourt, a three," falls from Romilda van der Voort's mouth, she's slapped with too many emotions to name. Denial seems to be the most prominent.

Because there is absolutely no way that this isn't a stress-induced fever dream. Signing up for Prince Roy's Selection had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Nothing more than a meaningless, last-ditch attempt to grab her uncle's attention while also finding a means of escape—a few weeks to get some space without feeling as though she was abandoning her cousins.

Through the shock she vaguely recognizes that Sadie is squealing in her ear. York smacks her repeatedly with a pillow in his excitement, but it feels distant, like she's out of sync with her own body.

The phone rings. Aunt Amelia surges to her feet to answer it, and Camilla is snapped to the present with sharp clarity.

She drags her gaze away from the TV to Uncle Jefferson. He's bent forward in his chair, as though the announcement had almost sent him to his feet. Their eyes meet, and Camilla can see the fury pressing on the edges of his cool exterior. Panic scratches at her throat.

_What have I done? _She thinks. _What have I done?_

The next few hours are a blur: so much information she can hardly process any of it, more screaming, Aunt Amelia calling the firm to take a day off for what must be the first time in years. Phone calls. Visitors. So many visitors. And, through it all, Uncle Jefferson's stare, growing heavier with each minute until she's sure her spine will snap under the weight.

It all comes to a head the minute Aunt Amelia escorts the final visitor for the night to the door and the cousins have been sent to prepare for bed.

"Follow me, Camilla," Uncle Jefferson says. "We need to talk."

He leads her into the study, and after a moment's hesitation, she shuts the door behind her. It's a polished space, lacking very few personal touches except for a spider plant on top of the bookshelf and the lone family photo just below it. Vibrant green clusters have grown long enough that they drape over the pot and brush against the black picture frame.

This is a room she only has a few memories of. Some of them are good, like the time he'd accepted her decision to pursue architecture; they'd spent the entire afternoon exploring her options, and afterwards he'd shared a few stories about her father when he was young. Judging by the way her uncle remains standing instead of sitting down in his leather chair, she doesn't think this will be one of those good memories.

For a minute, they stare each other down. Camilla clasps her hands in front of her, waiting for him to make the first move.

"You didn't tell me."

"No. I didn't," she says, mirroring his stiff tone.

"And why is that?"

_Because if I didn't make it in, you'd only see it as another failure. Because you might have stopped me. Because it's an all-expenses paid vacation away from your uncanny ability to turn the room to ice and I miss the sun._

She considers her options, but settles on, "Does it matter? It's done."

He bristles. To the untrained eye it would go unnoticed, but Camilla sees the way that his shoulders raise slightly, how his jaw twitches. "And what are you hoping comes from this? All of Illéa will be watching you, now. You've placed this family in the public eye. Everything you say, everything you do, will reflect on us. One wrong move could ruin everything—tarnish your father's legacy. Did you consider that, or did you submit that form without a second thought?"

Camilla should leave it be, just quietly agree and hope that his anger simmers down by the time she is eliminated. But her whole world has been tilted off its axis, and she's tired, and the mention of her father has left a bitter taste in her mouth, so she decides to push her luck.

"I'm an adult, Uncle. I can make my own choices. And maybe, if you'd stop trying to drag me up onto your impossible pedestal for even one _second, _you'll see that some of them are good."

"Camilla, everything I do is for your own good."

She stares at him. Her hands hurt from where her nails press into skin.

"I've lost things 'for my own good' too, you know," she finally bites out, quietly. "I hardly had a chance to connect with kids my own age, or share my actual interests–"

"Camilla." Her name sounds sharp when he says it—a warning—but it's not enough to slice through her pleas.

"–or do something just for the fun of it, like learn how to line dance or something equally ridiculous. And do you know how sad that is?"

"That's enough, Camilla."

"No, just...just listen. Please. All I want–"

"I said that's _enough_!" he growls, rising to his full height and taking a step towards her. Camilla clamps her mouth shut, biting down on her tongue so hard that a drop of blood dribbles down her throat.

Uncle Jefferson studies her for a moment before he flicks his hand at the door. Her words seem to have done nothing but bounce off him, seeping through the cracks of the floor to lie forgotten. Something inside Camilla _cracks, _draining the fight from her, leaving an empty shell.

"As you've said, it's done. We'll talk more about this tomorrow, when you aren't acting like a spoiled child. Until then, maybe consider the consequences of this political media circus you've thrown us into. You're dismissed."

The door clicks behind her. She stands in the hall, thinking she should feel something, like anger or resolve or shame, but there's only numb acceptance. She's done fighting. The argument had only confirmed what she knows: Camilla Daugherty will never meet the standards of Jefferson Daugherty.

_But_, she thinks as she approaches her door, _it's not like it matters anymore_. She'll be gone within the week anyway.

She enters her room, intent on collapsing in bed and hoping she'll wake up tomorrow to find it was all a dream, but freezes as she takes in the sight in front of her.

Her room has exploded, with pillows and blankets scattered all over the floor. The comforter had been removed from her bed and draped across two chairs and the dresser. And there, from the center of the carefully constructed blanket fort, her cousins sit wearing large grins—or, in Niel's case, a completely neutral expression save for his raised eyebrows.

Camilla opens her mouth, but the bright colors and cozy atmosphere are such a whiplash from her previous conversation that her mind goes blank.

Sadie fills the silence for her, saying, "Don't worry, we saved the biggest pillow for you."

"Meaning that she's been sitting on it for the past half hour and refuses to budge, so you can thank her for the sore neck in the morning," Niel says.

York nods his head sagely. "I tried to bite her. She didn't move."

Camilla manages a breathless laugh and moves towards them, affection unraveling the tension in her body. "What possibly could have happened for me to deserve something as special as a fort night?" she teases.

York giggles, revealing the gap in his front teeth. Sadie gives an offended gasp and begins to shout about how she had made a _playlist _for this very moment and how not celebrating was punishable by tickle fight. Niel smirks and gestures around him.

"As if we'd let you live this down," he says.

Camilla ducks into the fort and is suddenly very, very awake.

The entire interior is strung with pictures of Prince Roy. Baby pictures, blurry images taken by the paparazzi, and official palace portraits all stare down at her. Camilla doesn't even know how they managed to print off this many without Uncle Jefferson noticing. Turning, she sees clippings taken from the prince's most recent party escapade, censored nudity and all.

Camilla shrieks and lunges to cover both Sadie and York's eyes. She tackles them to the carpet, the layer of pillows and blankets padding the fall. As both cousins wiggle under her with laughter, she sends an incredulous look at Niel.

"Funny. But _those _are not appropriate for young eyes."

Niel shrugs. "Better get used to the sight, because you're about to be living with him."

For the first time that night, the reality of the situation crashes down on her. The Selection isn't just added pressure, or being thrown into the spotlight, or getting to see the palace up close and personal. No, provided that she makes it past the first week, she'll be expected to _date _the prince. To impress someone she doesn't even know. Alongside 34 other girls.

Camilla wishes the wastebasket was closer; she's feeling nauseous.

Panic starts to ice her veins, but then York squirms out from under her and says, "Are you gonna climb the palace? That would be so cool!"

"York!" Sadie says. "She can't do that; she's a lady now!"

"No, she's Cami."

"Cami in a dress. How do you think she's going to climb like that?"

"Well...she doesn't have to wear one. Mr. Roy wouldn't make her, would he?"

"It's a pretty dress, why _wouldn't_ she wear it?!"

They squabble back and forth, talking over one another about palace life and the royal family. Their enthusiasm is catching. Even Niel—who had started pulling down the prince's photos, much to her relief—gives her an excited smile, similar to the one he wears only when talking astronomy.

Something stirs in Camilla's chest, something like anticipation, and she finds herself latching onto it. She settles back against the Sadie-squashed pillow, and by the time Niel clicks off the lights, Camilla has almost convinced herself that the Selection is something she's allowed to look forward to.

**.3.**

**Parallax: the change in an object's apparent position when viewed from two different locations**

If there's anything the royal family values, it's security; Prince Roy's personal guard alone looks like he could punch a bear in the jaw without batting an eye. So she should probably be concerned with how easy it is for her to climb off of her 3rd-floor balcony, scale the wall surrounding the grounds, and plunge deep into the forest for an hour or two before returning undetected. Multiple times.

But, Camilla reasons, most people aren't closet free climbers either, and she hopes it has something more to do with her skills than poor palace security.

She's considered saying something to Prince Roy, but that line of questioning would force her to unearth all sorts of emotional baggage, which isn't the most pleasant conversation material. The country's leaders have more pressing issues than her personal problems.

Her problems aren't as claustrophobic as they once were, anyway, crushing and filling her lungs like seawater. But the Selection, as fun as it is, still tends to generate some stress. Sometimes she needs a distraction from an upcoming interview or a reprieve from the chaos of the Women's Room (she loves the other Selected, she really does, but sometimes she considers using her blueprints to strangle Sherlock when she makes one too many puns).

Angeles' forests feel different from those in Belcourt, pockets of untamed and proud wilderness interspersed between the lights and concrete of the city. The entire floor is carpeted with dead leaves and foliage that absorbs noise, giving the illusion that the earth is holding its breath. A sweet scent that reminds Camilla of rain pervades the air, though windy days carry a tang from the ocean that salts her tongue. Then there are the trees, ancient beings with scarred bark that stretch so high their spindly branches nearly blot out the sky.

It was the trees that had drawn her out here for the first time, about three weeks into the Selection. It was only supposed to be a one-time risk—enough to take the edge off the pressure, something familiar to ease the homesickness—but it had only snowballed from there. Old habits die hard; the royal family has been more than welcoming, but leaving palace grounds alone isn't exactly protocol, and she's not eager to feel the familiar sting of rejection. She'll get enough of that when she returns home.

Camilla shakes the thought from her head, wincing at the pain in her neck from being hunched over for too long. Tonight she didn't come out here to wallow in self-pity; she came to sketch.

The palace is as stunning as she'd hoped, and she still has to stop herself from drooling whenever she thinks about its history or examines the detail work too closely. Nothing, however, captures the building's full grandeur better than the view from her favorite tree.

She balances in its upper branches, flashlight tucked behind her ear and sketchbook in her lap. A breeze tugs playfully at the ends of her cropped hair, but the tree holds steady despite how high up she is.

The palace is haloed in light, glittering against the black backdrop of night. The soft gray lines Camilla strokes to paper can hardly do it justice, and it isn't long before her hand slows and she gets lost in the scene. The longer she looks, the more she falls in love with it.

Yearning for her cousins pulses with each heartbeat, but she can't argue that after only a couple months the palace is starting to feel more like a home than 18 years in Belcourt.

Probably because the forest makes a great therapist, she thinks with a small smile. It has a way of helping her unravel her thoughts, like that one time when she'd snarked at a _very _drunk Prince Roy. It was a slip of the tongue that should have proved disastrous in front of Illéa's future monarch, but he'd seemed to _enjoy _it. She'd spent a couple hours in her tree afterward, trying to sort through her confusion to why his declaration that "Funny is wonderful, marvelous, exciting!" had nearly sent her into cardiac arrest, puzzling over how someone could just be so _open _like that. So honest and real despite having the burden of the world on his shoulders.

Some might blame it on the alcohol or write it off as an act, but Camilla knows the cold, and she's starting to suspect that Prince Roy might have one of the warmest hearts she's ever seen.

She scratches absentmindedly at the branch beneath her, fingernail snagging against the bark's ridges. A branch snaps from somewhere below, but she keeps her gaze fixed ahead.

It's funny, she thinks, of what a difference distance can make. How the palace, bustling with servants and guards, can look peaceful from here. How something like the Selection can draw back the curtain to show her just how much more there is to the world than she'd previously imagined.

She likes the extended view, as intimidating as it is. She just wishes she could find her place in it.

"Lady Camilla?"

Another thing about the Angeles forest is that it's quiet; not even the crickets, which typically serenade the Belcourt night scene, make a sound. So when she hears a strangled voice that sounds suspiciously like Prince Roy's, she nearly falls out of the tree because either she's gone insane or...no, he's right there, bathed in silver and squinting up at her in the moonlight. All she can do is sit there, mouth open and sketch pad crumpling in her grip, totally exposed with her metaphorical walls down, not able to bring them up again because she's too busy contemplating ways to melt into the tree.

She sees the prince's bodyguard from the corner of her eye, and chills blaze across her arms. Exactly how many guns does Officer Durante have strapped to him?

_Well, _Camilla thinks resignedly, just before she opens her mouth to stammer out a reply. _This isn't the worst place to die. _It's preferable, actually_. _Because if Prince Roy doesn't execute her, her uncle certainty will, and his study is not nearly as aesthetically pleasing.

**.2.**

**Regolith: the loose, pulverized surface soil of the moon or similar material on a planetary surface**

Camilla's been in places she'd describe as still as death, but this is the first time she can physically _feel_ it. The palace, once lively and vibrant, is a hollow shell gutted by the absence of the dead and filled with the mourning of those left behind. It's been hours since the broadcast, since the massacre that took the lives of rebels, civilians, and royals alike. Although the Selected wing remains fairly untouched, shadows soak the carpet like bloodstains and moonlight glints through the window like scattered shell casings.

The palace is finally secure. Roy is in the infirmary, but stable. Walter Wolanski is dead. She's safe. But there's no relief—only pain. Her broken fingers, while treated and placed in a splint, hurt. Her head hurts. Her chest hurts. Everything _hurts._

Camilla lies still on the bed as Maeve snores quietly to her right and Ambrosia shifts restlessly on her left. Although they'd been cleared to return to their own rooms, all three of them had retreated to Maeve's room in silent agreement. Not much was said, they just sat in the comfort of each other's presence until both Maeve and Ambrosia fell into an uneasy sleep. Camilla's glad that they can get some rest, even if she can't.

_We're all that's left, _she thinks distantly, blinking up at the ceiling._ The last of Roy's Selected_. 24 hours ago there had been six of them, gathered on the couches of the Women's Room, laughing and pacing and offering words of encouragement over their philanthropy projects. But now Katrina and Elise are dead and Lilly–

Camilla squeezes her eyes shut, betrayal and sympathy warring in her brain.

Gently removing Ambrosia's head from her shoulder, Camilla inches off the bed. Heat washes over her skin as she staggers her way into the bathroom. She closes the door and stands in the darkness for a minute, counting her breaths, before flipping the light switch and moving to the sink.

"I'm okay," she'd told Aunt Amelia earlier, over the phone. Her aunt had been crying, choking out words through ugly sobs in a way Camilla had never heard before. Even long after her aunt had calmed down, the memory unsettled her.

"Really, I'm fine. The scary part is over," she'd soothed. "My fingers were treated and other than a few bruises I'm unharmed. And the military cleared the palace, so everything is rebel-free."

"Camilla," her aunt snapped, voice bordering on hysteria. "You know that isn't what I–"

"I know," Camilla interrupted. "But I don't...not now. I'll talk about it later but it...it's been a long day. And I kind of just want to hear about home. Is everyone okay?"

Aunt Amelia hesitated, but didn't push it. "The kids are fine. A little confused, but we got them out of the room the minute the broadcast started. You should call us tomorrow; they'd love to hear your voice." There was a pause as she deliberated her next words, like she did when handling a sensitive case. "Your uncle is...taking it hard, Cami. Seeing that...seeing you and then not seeing anything at all, and not knowing afterwards if you were even...it rattled him."

Camilla swallowed. Their argument felt like it had been decades rather than months ago. After everything, her uncle's approval that she'd been craving for so long seemed insignificant, a speck of dust on a big planet. Any hurt she might have once felt at him not even coming to the phone to tell her himself was numbed by the day's events.

"Tell them all that I love them," she finally said. "And that I'm alright."

In that moment, she had been—exhausted and worried, but she was alive, and that had been enough to let her move forward with an illusion of calm. But now, in the dark where there are few distractions, it's beginning to catch up to her.

Taking care to keep her splintered fingers dry, she splashes water on her face a few times. She watches the water spiral down the drain, pointedly avoiding the mirror.

She can imagine what she looks like—shadows under her eyes, harsh against her brown skin. Dark brown hair frizzing in all directions. She couldn't care less about her appearance, but there's this lingering fear that if she looks she'll find a mark, as if Walter's gun had permanently tattooed her when it was pressed to her forehead.

_God, she'd jumped in front of a _gun.

She doesn't regret her actions (because it was Roy_, _and he would have done the same—had done the same, when he'd dragged himself back to bargain his life for their safety) but the thought unlatches the box of repressed emotion in her chest.

And for the first time, Camilla doesn't try to hold it back.

Anger—at Walter and the trauma he caused, at the unfairness of it all—flares through her, painfully hot and setting every nerve alight. Terror that she almost died thrashes in her chest and throat. Grief for the loss of her friends, for the king, pounds behind her eyes and weighs on her heart until it seems to snap and plunge to the floor. Concern for Roy shudders in her bones, and she can't chase away the picture of his haggard, pale face and the screams—she'll never be able to erase those heartbroken screams from her mind.

She falls to her knees, barely registering the pain as they collide with the tile, and dry heaves over the toilet.

Distantly, she recognizes that someone has pulled her hair back from her face. They continue to hold it as she retches, and through it all she's thankful that she hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. When there's nothing left, she slumps back against them and sobs until her eyes burn and she only has enough energy left to let out silent gasps that rattle through her throat.

It feels like she's been run through a blender, emotions ripped into tattered ribbons, but her chest feels blissfully light. She feels better. Not good, barely okay, but better.

She sniffles one last time and glances up into Maeve's uncharacteristically solemn face. Camilla gives her a small nod. Maeve pulls her hand away from Camilla's back, where it had been rubbing slow circles, and releases her hair with the other.

"Thanks. I'm sorry if I woke you," Camilla says, voice scratchy.

Maeve doesn't laugh, but her mouth twitches. "Are you kidding? That was the quietest breakdown I've ever seen. Girl, the only reason I even found you was because I was on my way to do the same thing." She leans back on her heels and examines Camilla closely. "You good?"

"No." There's no point in lying since Maeve had literally just found her sobbing on the bathroom floor. "But I will be. Eventually."

Maeve nods, and a silence follows, made gentle by their solidarity; they aren't alone in this. Camilla leans back against the wall and closes her eyes.

After a minute, she hears Maeve sigh. "This sucks."

The simplicity of the statement is so absurd that Camilla can't help but laugh, though she is quickly stopped by her raw throat. She opens her eyes to see Maeve smiling as well, but then it falls.

"What are we going to do, Cami?" She says, barely above a whisper. The question drifts in the air like spider silk.

The obvious answer should be "go home," but it doesn't feel right. Months ago she'd thought that Angeles was special because of the palace, because it was so far away from her uncle. Now she knows that it's not the trees or the palace or the climbing that accepted her, made her feel loved—it was the people. And it's her turn to return the favor.

Roy once told her that she should never have to do anything she didn't want to do just for the sake of making someone happy. Well, she wants to stay. She wants to help pick up the pieces, no matter how big or small. But there's so much to pick up and thinking ahead is a little overwhelming in the moment, so Camilla tilts her head back and rests. They have time.

"For now," she says, "Let's just wait for morning."

**.1.**

**Earthshine: a glow on the darker portion of the moon, created from the reflection of sunlight off Earth**

In her months of travel, Camilla has learned that, as beautiful as something is, there is always something else out there capable of taking her breath away. It comes as no surprise that the Sangrada Familia is just as gorgeous the second time around, even though she'd seen it that morning, before the tour. But now the lights at its base bathe it in an ethereal glow, giving her new angles to admire the basilica's spires.

Other tourists press around her, some holding phones, others fancy cameras. Camilla herself prefers postcards, as tacky and antiquated as they are, but her friends and family seem to enjoy them. Sadie uses them to decorate her wall. Sometimes Roy will send one back with a picture of the palace or Angeles beachfront, as a joke. The bold lines of his handwriting never fail to make her smile.

She misses him. After almost three years, he's become her best friend. Well, he's more than that, though there's no word she can use to describe it. But he'd asked for space, and she's more than willing to wait, even if a part of her is counting the days since she left.

Her Architecture World Tour of for God's Sake Cami Do Something for Yourself for Once (trademark Niel Daugherty) had originally been to give him the time to sort things out, but now Camilla has to admit that Niel was right. It's nice taking some time to herself, and the trip has proven to be more than inspirational. She has a whole bag of notebooks, crammed to the edges with sketches and notes, ideas nearly spilling out of the pages.

Camilla pulls away from the crowd and settles herself on the edge of a bench with one of her lesser-used notebooks. She's just started to outline the Glory facade when an older woman with sharp features and curly hair sits next to her. Camilla gives her a quick smile but doesn't turn to her until she speaks.

"It's truly amazing," she says. Camilla almost startles at her Illéan accent—Midston, specifically—and tenses for a moment. Ever since the broadcast and news of the One, she's grown used to being recognized. But outside Illéa, it's been a little easier to fly under the radar, and she wonders if her luck has run out. Maybe she shouldn't have left her guard back at the hotel.

But the woman continues to talk, and Camilla's shoulders lower. The shadows must be dark enough to cover her face.

"I tried to convince my husband to go nightseeing with me, but he insisted it was too late. That's what happens when you get older, sugar. You start acting old." She sighs, though a fond smile paints her face. "But once he sees the pictures he'll beg me to bring him tomorrow night, just you see."

Camilla chuckles and sets her sketchpad to the side. "My uncle would hate it," she says. She traces the curved spires with her eyes. "Too messy. Not enough control. Although, Antoni Gaudí had originally planned it to be that way. He wanted the basilica to represent nature and avoided straight lines because they don't occur naturally."

She's getting carried away, flashing her architect side a little more than she intended, but her companion leans forward with bright eyes. "How fascinating! Are you a tour guide?"

"Oh, no. I'm an architect. I can get a little passionate at times, as my friends and family are painfully aware."

"Well, I'd love to hear more."

It's rare to find an attentive listener whose eyes don't glaze over at the mention of ceiling vaults and rose windows, and Camilla takes advantage of the situation. Voice giddy, hands gesturing lightly, trying-but-failing to keep a smile off her face as she speaks. She's just describing how construction of the basilica was a 130 year process when her phone chirps.

"Speak of the devil," she murmurs as she glances at the screen. She gives an apologetic smile. "I need to go. My uncle is a devout believer in phone calls only, so if he's texting it's either an accident or he's being held at gunpoint."

"Go on, go on," the woman says, waving her away. "I need to take some pictures to make my husband jealous anyway, though it was a pleasure meeting you, dear."

Camilla returns the sentiment before walking a few paces away, squinting at her phone suspiciously. She and Uncle Jefferson talk—not often, since she started splitting her time between Belcourt and Angeles, then left on her trip—but at least twice a month in an attempt to bridge the gap between them. He's still wrapped in layers of steel and frost, but he's listening to her now, which is far more than she would've even imagined before the Selection. For the most part, it's working, even if their reconciliation is moving at a glacial pace and they'll probably never be as close as she wants.

But she hasn't heard from him since last week, when she firmly told him that, no, she wasn't going to cut her trip short and still wouldn't be home until Roy's coronation. He'd hung up on her, like a petulant 8-year-old storming to his room and slamming his door.

Camilla rolls her eyes and opens the text.

There are no words, only a picture. A photo of her parents—one she's never seen before. They're dressed nicely, but look relaxed and carefree as they lean back on the grass, her mother's head on her father's lap. Her mother's pale yellow dress is smudged with grass stains near the bottom, and her father's hair is slicked back in a manner that Camilla would tease him for, if he was still alive. Camilla zooms in on the writing in the bottom corner and sees that it's dated a few years before she was born.

_One of their engagement photos_, she realizes.

A drop splashes on the screen, distorting her mother's face and lining the edges in rainbow swirls. Camilla touches her cheek and her hand comes away wet. She laughs softly and shakes her head, wiping the tears away.

Uncle Jefferson still hasn't said anything, but she takes the photo for what it is—an olive branch. Maybe she's finally found a way to thaw him out.

She takes a picture of the Sangrada Familia and sends it to him. Although she knows he'd disagree, she types below it, _Another example of human ingenuity_.

Another stamp on her passport. Another postcard on Sadie's wall. Another piece of herself slotted into place.

**.0.**

**Culmination: the moment when a celestial object crosses the meridian and is thus at its highest point above the horizon**

The distant groan of thunder wakes her, and though she wants to nuzzle deeper into her husband's arms and fall back asleep, she finds herself donning a robe and trailing out onto the balcony.

It had been a hot summer, even for Angeles, and the siren song of Fall's first rainfall is too strong for her to ignore.

It's close enough to sunrise that the world isn't necessarily dark, just filtered in a deep gray. The stars are barely visible, faint pinpricks that are steadily being covered by the murky clouds rolling in on the horizon. Sweetness lies heavily in the air. Camilla takes a deep breath in, enjoying the way that it twirls in her lungs.

She senses more than hears him, feeling a warmth at her back moments before the balcony doors close with a soft _snick. _He grabs her hand, tangling their fingers together, and rests his chin on her shoulder with a sleepy sigh.

"You alright?" Roy asks.

Contentment blankets her, and she sinks back against him with a nod. It's quickly followed by concern, however, and she cranes her head to examine his face. She hadn't heard him wake up, like she normally does when his trauma haunts him, but the thunder might have covered it.

"Nightmare?"

Roy shakes his head, lips quirking at the mother-henning in her tone. Shadows underline his eyes, and his black hair lies unruly against his forehead and neck, but it's nothing more than being an overworked king would cause. Camilla eases. They have their bad nights, but tonight isn't one of them.

"Nah, just curious as to why my wife is out on the balcony. In freezing weather. At five in the morning."

Even now, after all this time, she has to stifle a smile at the title. It's just the two of them, so she doesn't hold back, but she does tuck her head into the crook of his neck so he won't see. He likes making her flustered, and it's too early for her to feed his ego yet.

"If you think this is freezing, you'd never survive Belmont in winter," she says. She pointedly gestures to the still-green expanse of lawn below them and feels him shrug.

"Doesn't hurt to double check."

"Isn't that my job?" She prods his side teasingly with her free hand. He scoffs.

"Yeah, well, you also have to deal with my sorry—albeit handsome—self. I figured the least I could do is share the load."

He rubs his thumb against the ridges in her fingers, remnants from her broken bones, and Camilla squeezes his hand tighter. His weight grows heavier against her back, and she's wondering if he'd fallen asleep when he speaks again.

"Go back to bed?"

She hums in agreement just as lightning veins through the rapidly-approaching clouds and sparks the landscape in intense white. She feels her breath catch, lost for a minute in the way it highlights his features—exhausted, but lovely. He's too tired to appreciate the moment, though, half-dead on his feet and stickiness coating his voice like cobwebs. He gives her a grumpy frown, though there's nothing but affection in his brown eyes. He'll undoubtedly tease her about it later, in the less unholy hours, but Camilla finds she doesn't mind.

"So what are we waiting for?"

"Nothing," she says, as truthful as she's ever been. The first few raindrops fall just as they move to go back inside, dancing cheerfully around their feet. She smiles easily, free and full and bright. "Absolutely nothing."


	4. Cat's Cradle (Parker)

**A/N: **Back to our (un)regularly scheduled Parker nonsense

* * *

**Cat's Cradle: Or, the one where Parker meets his nemesis**

In hindsight, Parker really couldn't blame anyone but himself. It _had _been his idea. But, he would argue, Harley should have seen the red flags the minute he said:

"I was able to keep Mademoiselle Cactus alive for at least 24 hours, so I'm pretty sure I can keep Tyce breathing for three."

Instead of tackling Parker and restraining him until he came to his senses, like she should have, Harley simply stared at him through the mirror. Her hands stayed frozen by her right ear where they'd been adjusting her hoop earrings.

"That's…" She squeezed her eyes shut, and if her hands weren't occupied, Parker could picture her massaging her forehead. "That's not comforting. At all."

"Have faith, Harley," Parker said. Even with her ridiculously high heels, he slung an arm easily around her shoulders—at age 16 he already towered a good foot above her—and directed her towards the door. "You and Joel enjoy your night, work some things out, and relax like the boring old people you are. I've g-got this! The only thing you'll be hearing for the next few months is how awesome Uncle Parker is!"

It was a testament to how exhausted Harley was when she and her husband left without further argument, leaving Parker with Tyce and an extensive packet detailing everything he should and shouldn't do. Number one on the "Shouldn't Do" list read: _don't lose this packet_.

Naturally, the first thing Parker did was toss the packet to the side. It fell behind the couch with an offended crackle.

"Your mom thinks we need an instruction manual on how to have _fun,_" he said with a scoff as he sat cross-legged next to Tyce, who was flipping through one of his picture books vigilantly. "We're more than capable of having fun, aren't we, partner?"

As it turned out, Tyce's preferred method of fun was curling up on Parker's lap while he was read to. Parker had known that his nephew was a bookworm, but after forty minutes of reading classics such as _Sully Sloth Goes to School, Sully Sloth Goes to the Supermarket, _and _Sully Sloth Goes to Sleep, _he decided that it was high time to follow in Sully Sloth's excruciatingly slow footsteps and get Tyce out of the house.

He shoved the books to the side and stood, jogging in place a few times to relieve the stiffness that had settled into his legs.

"Enough of that. It's adventure time!"

"Where?" Tyce asked, blinking up at Parker. He'd missed out on the Zaleski's golden curls, but his brown hair feathered down in front of large brown eyes that mirrored Parker and Harley's. He seemed smaller than the average four-year-old, skin unnaturally pale and eyes constantly hooded with fatigue. Harley had been careful to keep him indoors ever since he'd been diagnosed, but Parker swatted back his trepidation; a little sunlight never hurt anybody.

Except maybe vampires, but he was willing to take that chance. He'd binged all 64 episodes of the third _Buffy the Vampire Slayer _reboot for a reason.

"Somewhere. Anywhere!" Parker held out his fist. "But I can't do it without my partner in crime."

"Momma says crime is bad."

"Partner in totally legal activities, then. Don't leave me st-stranded, bud."

Tyce's nose scrunched, but he softly returned the fist bump.

And that was how Parker found himself teaching his nephew the ins and outs of the public transit system as they walked to the bus stop.

* * *

In Parker's defense, Harley _did _say that they could go to the park (he'd even skimmed the manual before they left—it was number 23 on the positive list). Granted, she'd probably meant the playground found within her apartment complex, but Parker had seen few things more depressing than that pile of sand and a single slide that they called a "park." If he was to maintain the self-given title of "World's Funnest Uncle," only the downtown park with the large pond, lush grass, and twisting trees would do.

Parker had gotten stuck in one of those trees when he was five, and the hour it'd taken for the fire department to come and detangle him from the branches was one he remembered warmly. It wasn't every day someone got to climb down a fire truck ladder, surrounded by flashing lights and a cheering crowd.

Tyce didn't seem to share in his fondness. He clung to Parker's back, ducking his head down at the noon sun's glare. His hair tickled the back of Parker's neck.

"My head hurts," he murmured.

Concern jittered through Parker, threatening to turn into panic, but he pushed it back. Tyce _needed _this outing. In a couple weeks he'd be in the hospital, and then who knew how long it would be before he could run and play without adults breathing down his neck, scrutinizing his every move?

Parker still couldn't smell disinfectant without hearing Dr. Navarro's stringent tone.

With a resolute nod of his head, he swung Tyce from his back and placed him on to the concrete. He would be fine, especially after he saw the–

"Duckies!" Tyce said, already tugging on Parker's hand to pull him towards the pond, tiny heels scraping against the sidewalk as he yanked. "Let's go watch the ducks!"

"Right behind you, partner."

Parker was starting to feel pretty proud of himself by the time they'd reached the pond. With the deadly combination of his soft voice and wide eyes, Tyce had convinced an older man to give him a slice of his bread, which he was now breaking into little pieces as mallards, coots, and even a Canadian goose crowded around him. Parker was tempted to throw the bread and watch all the birds race after it, but the thought was quickly extinguished by the smile on Tyce's face as he dropped crumbs at his feet, talking gently and giving an occasional _quack _of his own.

_And Harley worried it couldn't be done, _Parker thought. _She should have known better than to doubt my uncle-ing abilities._

"Oh my god, he's adorable!" The squeal pulled Parker's attention away from his nephew, and he turned to see two girls who had stopped to watch Tyce's display. The first one grabbed her companion's arm and shook it. "Look how cute he is, Rhea!"

"Great. As if you weren't baby hungry enough," Rhea said, sighing, before eyeing Parker. "He yours?"

Parker laughed. _Heaven forbid_. He loved Tyce, but he could barely remember to feed himself most days. "My sister's, but he _is_ pretty cute. Not as cute as he could be, because he wasn't lucky enough to rock the curly hair, but he's a little s-superstar in his own right. You should have seen him when—"

Midsentence, he turned to smile at Tyce, only to see nothing but muddy footprints and empty air.

_Crap._

Parker might have only browsed Harley's packet, but he was pretty sure that losing Tyce was firmly written down as something he _shouldn't do._

Swallowing back a shriek so that his words devolved into a nervous chuckle instead, he said, "Ex...excuse me, ladies. Did you see where...see if…if he..."

Despite his stammer, Rhea seemed to understand. "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention." She looked at her friend, who gave a sympathetic frown but shook her head.

Parker clapped his hands together, sending a tingling pain across his skin that helped ground him to the present. It was okay. Everything was fine. Tyce was a sick child with stubby legs; he couldn't have gone _that _far, right?

One glance around the park proved Parker wrong. The late hour was starting to show, casting long shadows across the grass and accentuating the tree leaves with an orange tinge. A young couple lounged on a blanket at the other end of the pond, and Parker could hear barking from where a family was playing fetch, but there was no sign of fawn brown hair.

A breeze jostled the cattails on the pond bank, catching his attention. He raced towards the edge, water splashing at his feet. He frantically scanned the rippling water—he would have heard Tyce if he'd fall in, he tried to assure himself—and was relieved to only see ducks bobbing on the dark surface.

"Tyce!" Parker shouted. Then, louder, cupping his hands around his mouth, "Tyce!"

Water was beginning to soak into his tennis shoes, dampening his socks and causing them to cling unpleasantly to his feet. He backed away and steered himself towards the more wooded end of the park.

_Check there, _he told himself, forcing deep breaths to slow his thoughts. _And if he's not in a tree talking to a squirrel or something then you have full permission to press the panic button._

"Tyce," he tried again. "This isn't f-funny, bud. You're really letting me down on your partner respon...responsibilities."

"Parker! Come look!"

Parker nearly collapsed to his knees from relief at the tiny voice. If Tyce was okay, then he _wouldn't _have to tell Harley she was right, tattoo "World's Worst Uncle" on his forehead in shame, and estranged himself from society to pay penance for his sins.

But that was only if he could find where the voice actually came from. Thankfully, a soft giggle from a nearby bush steered him in the right direction.

"You're supposed to be the well-behaved one," Parker scolded when Tyce came into view, but he knelt and wrapped him in a hug. The frantic racing of his heart eased as he soaked in the little boy's warmth. "You need to let me know if you're g-going to shake things up like that."

"The duckies were still hungry. I wanted to find the bread man, but he was gone." Tyce squirmed out of Parker's grip and peered into a bush. "But I found a kitty!"

Parker bent down, leaves brushing his cheek. A pair of yellow eyes glinted from the darkest corner of the foliage.

"Hi, kitty," Tyce whispered, reaching into the bush.

"Um, hold on a minute, partner. I don't think Harley would–"

But before Parker could finish his sentence, Tyce withdrew his hands with the cat nestled between them. It was small—barely out of the kitten stage. Dirt dusted its white fur, but not enough to conceal the black patches on its face, back, and chest. As Tyce ran his hand across the cat's back, it let out a purr so deep that the vibrations seemed to rumble through the ground.

"Huh." He clamped his mouth closed, trying not to feel jealous at how easily Tyce had channeled his inner Disney princess. "I think you found the fanciest cat in these woods. It looks like he's wearing a little tuxedo with those markings."

He reached forward to pet the cat's head. The purring stopped, and with a hiss, the cat lashed out. Parker jerked his hand back, gasping at the thin red scratches stinging his skin.

"I take that back. You found a devil cat and I really think we should put that thing back where it came from before it kills...kills us both."

"I'm going to name you Tuxedo," Tyce said as the cat rolled on to its back, revealing that the devil cat was, in fact, a _she-_devil cat.

Alarms rang in Parker's head. Tyce had _named _the cat. Which meant he either had to cause a distraction or grab Tyce and run _now _before–

"Can I keep him?" Tyce said, gazing up with those large, curious eyes.

"Her," Parker corrected. He swallowed, fingers twitching against his thigh. The point of this expedition had been to cheer Tyce up, and he was pretty sure his next words were about to do the opposite, but he still said, "I don't think so. There was nothing in the manual about bringing home a cat. So how about we leave her here and go see if your parents are home yet. Are you hungry? I am! Absolutely famished! If we're lucky they've made dinner!"

"But Tuxedo's my friend!" Tyce said. He bit his lip, eyes turning glossy. "And she's alone."

"I bet we could c-convince Harley to make spaghetti," Parker said, voice weak.

"Please, Parker." The cat climbed onto Tyce's lap, nudging his neck with her pink nose. He hugged her tightly to his chest, and while she gave a chirp of protest, she didn't struggle. "Heroes help people."

"A cat isn't a people." But Parker winced. Tyce did have a point, and the cat seemed well-behaved around his nephew, despite how ornery she'd been with Parker earlier. Maybe he'd just caught her at a bad time.

"She's my friend," Tyce repeated. A giggle bubbled from his chest as the cat's whiskers brushed his neck.

_Screw it. _He'd have enough time to figure out how to explain this to Harley on the ride home.

And that's how Parker found himself adopting a cat.

* * *

By the time they'd reached the front steps of Harley's apartment, Parker had bestowed a name of his own on the cat: Lucifer. Luci, for short. Because the only explanation he had for the cat's behavior was that she was the literal incarnate of the devil himself, come to punish Parker for that time he ditched school to race pill bugs with his friend Abdul.

Smuggling the cat onto the bus had been laughably easy once Parker had fished a takeout carton from one of the park's dumpsters. Grease soaked the cardboard edges, but it was big enough to fit Luci, and the food at the bottom had kept her busy and quiet for the duration of the ride.

Well, quiet so long as the carton was on Tyce's lap. If Parker so much as touched the container, she'd start yowling and scratching as though someone had set her on fire.

Parker wasn't even sure if fire alone would be enough to kill her. The demons in those ghost hunting shows Harley used to watch didn't hold a candle to the banshee screeches that spewed from Luci's tiny body.

His ears were still ringing even after Luci had been tucked away in Tyce's room, blissfully silent now that Tyce was playing with her. She was deceptively cute as the little boy wiggled a string around, bouncing and swatting with her dainty paws, but Parker could only focus on the way she smothered the strand against the carpet, hooked claws sinking mercilessly into the fibers.

His knee bounced spastically, causing the bed to squeak. He didn't take his eyes from her, even as he bandaged the scratches on his hand. They weren't deep, barely bleeding, but for all he knew the cat could have purposely infected him with some disease. As if sensing what he was thinking, Luci's yellow eyes fixated on him and narrowed.

Parker made a mental note to never fall asleep unless he knew Luci was locked away and couldn't access sharp objects.

Thankfully, before Parker could start crying, the sound of the front door interrupted the staring contest. Indiscernible words drifted from down the hall—hushed and terse—before Harley called out for Tyce and Parker. It was in that moment Parker realized that he still wasn't sure how to explain the newest addition to the Zaleski family.

Harley didn't _love _surprises. At least, not in the way that Parker did. But she didn't _hate_ them either, so he was confident that she'd forgive him after her initial freak-out.

Besides, not only was Tyce alive, but he was more excited and energetic than he'd been in months. So if anything, Harley owed _him_ a favor.

"Guess who's still breathing!" Parker sang as he entered the front room, smugness laced in his smile. But his face fell when he saw Harley, looking even more tired than she'd been when she'd left, makeup slightly smeared under her eyes. In the kitchen Joel was plugging in the iron skillet, shoulders tense and movements stiff. He didn't look up at Parker.

"How was...how was the date?" he asked hesitantly, and immediately he wanted to whack himself on the back of the head.

_Not good, you idiot_. The outing was supposed to ease some of the tension that had arisen between Harley and Joel after Tyce's diagnosis, but apparently Parker's plan had backfired. Both were about as eased as a Charmander on a sinking boat in a rainstorm.

Harley just said, "Fine, but I missed my boys." Her eyes skimmed the house, stopping only briefly on the discarded manual on the floor. "I don't know if I should be relieved or disappointed that nothing's on fire."

That's because she wasn't yet aware of the beast Parker was sure had been forged from hellfire in the next room over.

"Ha, yeah. You came home before we could pull out the matches." Parker edged in front of Harley, blocking her path down the hall. "But just 'fine'? Are you s-sure you're okay? I can hang out with Tyce a little longer if you g-guys want to go back...go back out for a few more hours. Try again."

Parker tried not to squirm under Harley's gaze. "You're stuttering a bit more than usual," she said, slowly. "Maybe I should be asking if _you _are okay."

"Momma!"

Harley grinned and reached down to hug Tyce while something bordering on terror zipped across Parker's spine.

"Come to my room!" Tyce said, tugging on Harley's hand. "Come look!"

In other circumstances, Parker would have let Harley follow Tyce and allow things to play out from there. But Harley had yet to crack a real smile for the night, and Joel had yet to leave the kitchen. He was now flipping pancakes on the skillet; the hissing batter only heightened the tension.

And Tyce was about to make it a thousand times worse.

Parker bolted past Harley, his long legs allowing him to reach Tyce's room in just a few steps. He snatched the takeout container, grabbed Luci by the scruff, and had her stuffed inside before she could even blink, let alone hiss. Leaning out Tyce's window, he placed the box along the side of the building.

"–to the park and found a friend," Tyce said as he entered the room with Harley, seconds after Parker closed the window. He stopped, and not seeing Luci anywhere, frowned. "Tuxedo?"

"Heeey, Harley. Before I go I need to borrow Tyce for a minute. Just me and him. I didn't teach him the s-super secret handshake yet, and you can't come because it's super...secret." Parker picked up Tyce and gave Harley his best _nothing suspicious going on here, not at all _smile. The skeptical squint of her eyes suggested that it didn't work, but Parker had never been one for subtleties. Hopefully she'd just chalk it up to his trademarked Parker weirdness. "Won't t-take long!"

Tyce was quiet as Parker carried him out to the front porch, looking up at him with confusion.

"Okay, partner," Parker said, craning his head to make sure Harley hadn't followed them. "It's time for a super serious superhero team meeting."

"Where's Tuxedo?"

"I don't think it's the best idea to show her to your mom right now."

The hurt in Tyce's eyes was equivalent to that of a kicked puppy's. Parker might as well of been the one to kick said puppy at his nephew's soft, "Why?"

"Because…" Parker swallowed and scratched at the back of his head. It had been years since he'd felt this helpless with his words, and the familiar uselessness seeping into his brain was enough to spur him onward. "Because...we don't want to ruin the s-surprise."

Tyce blinked. "Surprise?"

"Yep! The surprise! The best way to give Luc– er, _Tuxedo _to your mom is by surprising her! But we need to build it up first, get her excited for it, or else it will s-seem really boring. And something as...special as Tuxedo deserves more than that. If this is going to work then I need you to do something for me."

Parker was only half processing the words erupting from his mouth, but at least Tyce seemed engaged, leaning forward eagerly and nodding his head.

"I can help!"

"I knew I could count on you! So, I'm going to keep Tuxedo for a little bit, but it is important—nay, _crucial_—that you don't say anything about a cat to your mom. If she asks, tell her that we got her a surprise. 'No' on cat, 'yes' on surprise. At least not until...until Harley has been so h-hyped that she'll explod– I mean, _get really excited. _Got it?"

"Where will Tuxedo go?"

"She'll be coming…home. With me." Parker tried not to choke, the words as pleasant as moldy socks on his tongue. But if this was the only way to keep Tyce happy and buy enough time for Harley and Joel to work things out before learning that they were now the proud parents of Lucifer, then it was a sacrifice that had to be made. "Safe and warm and happy. So what do you say?"

Tyce tilted his head, but then gave a resolute nod and held out his fist. Sighing in relief, Parker returned it.

"Atta boy, partner."

And that's how Parker found himself shoving yet another animal—hissing, scratching, channeling the seventh circle of Hell—down his shirt in order to smuggle his new (and, God willing,_ temporary_) roommate past his parents.

* * *

The next week proved that Parker _could _keep something alive for longer than a day. Unfortunately, joy of this revelation was dampened by the realization that this didn't come from his skill, but rather because Luci powered her life force solely through his misery.

The one positive was that she'd stopped yowling once she realized Parker was the bringer of food. After that they'd learned how to cohabitate, however uneasily. Still, that didn't stop Luci from asserting her dominance and advancing his suffering at every chance possible.

It always began at 5:30 in the morning, when she decided she needed the first of her three daily meals. Apparently, it was now okay for Parker and her to touch each other, because her favorite method of waking him was by kneading her claws into his scalp.

_Why couldn't Tyce of found a chameleon, _Parker quietly lamented. Chameleons were chill little dudes that decidedly didn't want to skin him alive.

Normally he would grumble about having to wake up so early, but Parker got so little sleep at night that it hardly mattered. Despite the perfectly good pile of blankets on the floor, Luci had claimed his face as her bed. He could only handle waking to cat fur on his tongue so many times before he finally gave up. But even when he migrated to his desk to work on his comics, Luci insisted on lounging beneath the desk lamp, blocking most of his light.

At least it wasn't as terrifying as her daytime activities, where she'd spend hours staring at the ceiling. Eyes unblinking. Tail occasionally swishing.

_Communing with her demon henchmen, _Parker thought. As soon as Luci was gone, he planned to hire the cheapest exorcist he could find.

There were other things, like the makeshift litter box under his bed and the sorry state of his curtains because she climbed them so much. After the third day, Parker was honestly too tired to care; he just let himself be dragged through the week in a tired haze. As nightmarish as his new reality was, he wouldn't give Luci the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Then Friday came around, and he could no longer ignore it.

Friday nights were Capital Report nights—Parker's favorite. When he was younger it was because the Report was followed by his dad's dessert. As he grew older, Parker watched more for the inspirational surge that he got each time he saw King Roy speak.

(And no, it wasn't an excuse to fanboy over his childhood hero like Harley claimed.

_Well, _Parker thought, taking in the king's confident posture and impressive hair. _Maybe it was. Just a little_).

After the week he'd had, Parker looked forward to kicking back for an hour and ignoring the fugitive who was probably cleaning herself on his comic book collection. The popcorn was popped, the blanket was on, and Hart, his father, was already half-asleep after a long day at the restaurant. Parker was ready to neglect responsibility and recollect his sanity.

Luci had other ideas. It wasn't even ten minutes into the broadcast when a wail drifted into the room, high and haunting and somehow infused with sass.

Maxine, Parker's mom, glanced up from her sudoku puzzle to Parker, who was staring steadfastly ahead.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Parker said. "Only thing I can hear is Dad snoring and Romilda van der Voort acing this report. How ever does she d-do it?"

Maxine made a face but went back to her puzzle. Parker sighed and relaxed into the worn sofa.

Less than a minute later the yowling began again. This time it didn't stop.

"Okay," Maxine said, lifting the legs of a still-snoozing Hart off her lap so she could stand. "That I know you can hear. Is there an animal or something trapped in our walls? It sounds like it's in pain."

Luci was most likely reciting an ancient cultist chant, but on the off chance that she _was _injured, Parker decided that he should probably check on her.

"No, it's my fault. I must have forgotten to turn off my music speakers," he said.

Luci's annoyed cries climbed in pitch and intensity, morphing into a full-on caterwaul that seemed to rattle the windows. Maxine raised her eyebrows, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile.

"_This _is what you kids listen to nowadays?"

"Uh huh." Parker swiped his sweaty palms across his pants. This wasn't the first—nor would it be the last—time he'd lied to his mom, but it was definitely his most _stupid _reason for doing so. "Screamo is making a comeback, Mom."

"And you _enjoy _this noise?"

"Hey, this 'noise' is 'D-death Rattle' by Lucifer's Cat—one of the most-listened to tracks of the year. Don't knock it 'til you try it. But, um, don't...don't look it up, either."

Parker edged towards his room, impatience skittering through his limbs under the weight of Maxine's stare. Finally, she shook her head and sat back down.

"I'm concerned for the state of your ears, but alright. Just keep it down from here on out."

"Gladly!"

Luci quieted the minute Parker flung open the door. Dry cat food crunched under his feet, and he flung his hands out to the overturned food dish. "_Really?"_

Luci watched him coolly from where she perched on a pile of his clothes.

Stepping over the scattered brown pellets, Parker snatched his Wonder Woman hoodie out from under her, invoking a disgruntled mew, and groaned as he saw the white and black hairs plastered against the soft material.

"Diana is a badass warrior _princess, _Luci, and we will treat her as such!"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Parker was aware that he was yelling at a cat. But by the way Luci's yellow eyes seemed to spark as he raised his voice, she was enjoying every second of his frustration.

Parker eyed his window, and before he could question himself, moved to open it. If Luci just so _happened _to get loose, there really wasn't much he could do about it. He could always search the shelters or dark web for another black and white cat with tuxedo markings. It couldn't be _that _hard to find.

On the desk, his phone lit up, momentarily distracting him.

**Harley, 8:24 P.M.**

_Why does Tyce keep telling me about a "surprise"?_

_What did you do on Monday?_

_He says it's a secret_

_Please tell me I won't see your face if I search the arrest records_

Parker's hands stilled. He sighed and stepped back from the window.

It didn't matter if he found a cat that was an exact replica of Luci. _Tyce would know. _For whatever reason, he adored her; Parker couldn't do that to him.

Hanging his head in defeat, blond curls obscuring his vision, he knelt to clean up the cat food. Soft _plinks _punctuated the silence as he tossed the pieces back into the metal bowl one by one.

"Here's the deal, Luci," he said. "You are the _a_-_absolute _worst. I don't like you, and you don't like me. In a few days, you are out of this room and never coming back. I'm sure you've already come up with six different ways to murder me and make it look like an acci...accident. But we both like Tyce, so for his sake, I proposed a truce."

The last piece clattered into the dish, and Parker looked up. Luci was on his windowsill, crouched low. She stretched a paw in front of her, inching it meticulously towards a pot that housed a small, dead cactus.

Parker scrambled to his feet, but it was as though he was stuck on lag. Everything around him moved too quickly, and no matter how hard he pushed his muscles he only had enough time to give a strangled shout.

"Luci, don't!"

The world snapped back to real time, and with one swipe the cat pushed Mademoiselle Cactus' corpse off the windowsill. It crashed to the floor, soil spraying violently across the carpet. Mademoiselle Cactus fractured into pieces, echoing the shattering of Parker's patience.

Luci curled into the newly vacated spot. Parker could hear her purr as she soaked in the weak afternoon sunlight.

"Don't worry, Madam," he said, cradling pieces of the broken husk in his hands before placing them reverently in the trash can. He glared at the cat, frustrated tears burning hot in the corners of his eyes. "I will avenge you."

And that's how Parker found himself declaring war.

* * *

The next morning found Parker on Harley's doorstep, Luci squirming in his grasp.

He'd meant to wait a few more days—give enough time for him to check in on Harley and Joel. But now he couldn't bring himself to care. Usually it was easy to put his resentment behind him and move on, but when he woke up that morning his insides still felt twisted and agitation slithered in his chest. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, and the only way Parker knew to get rid of it was to get rid of the cause.

So despite Harley's surprised exclamation, he shouldered past her into the living room and deposited Luci on the floor. She promptly darted behind a couch.

"Parker! What the hell!"

"Don't worry, she'll come out with the right m-motivation," Parker said in way of greeting. He glanced around the apartment, expecting Tyce to come around the corner and hug his legs. Or, more likely, run right past him and start spoiling Luci more than she deserved. "Where's Tyce? He's probably our best option."

"Gone. Joel took him out to breakfast this morning," Harley said. She must have just gotten out of the shower; wet hair clung to her back and face, dripping dark splotches onto her shirt. It didn't make the way her brown eyes flashed any less intimidating. "What is this?"

Parker gulped. Tyce being gone was...not good. At all. He needed his puppy-eyed partner to help soothe Hurricane Harley's impending bad mood.

"Let's wait until they get back," he said. He pulled Harley into a hug, attempting a distraction, but she pushed away from him with a firm glare.

"No. You just released a cat into my house without any explanation, Parker. I'll ask again: _what is this_?"

"Fine." He worked to pull Luci from behind the couch. He was almost thankful for her resistance; if he was focused on unsnagging her claws from the carpet, he wouldn't have to look Harley in the eye. But eventually, with a final yank, Luci came loose, sending Parker tumbling onto his back from the momentum.

"Congrats!" he said from the floor. Harley didn't seem amused by the jazz hands he made an attempt to lighten the mood. "This is your brand-new cat!"

"No. No way," Harley muttered. "I need you to explain from the beginning, Parker."

Despite the sinking in his chest, Parker complied, describing the park (glossing over the bit where Tyce went missing), Luci's discovery, the deal, how she'd completely taken over his living space. Harley only seemed to grow more distressed. By the time he was finished, she sat on the scratched coffee table, head in her hands.

"What did you do?" she asked, voice soft but carrying a hint of panic. "Parker, you actually promised him that he could keep it?"

"Well, yeah," Parker said, confused. He'd known Harley wouldn't be ecstatic, but he hadn't expected her to be _this _upset. "It made him happy, and y-you know how impossible it is to resist him."

"I know you had good intentions, but I _can't _keep this cat!"

"W-what? Of course you can," Parker said, brow furrowing. "Your apartment allows animals. Is it the personality? Sure, she hates _me, _but she's warmed up to other...other people well enough."

She gave him a dry look. "You named it _Lucifer_."

"Don't say her true name—it only makes her stronger!"

"That's not promising. Besides, that wasn't what I meant."

"Although, t-technically speaking, her actual name is 'Tuxedo'."

"No," Harley said, voice taking on a hard edge that turned Parker from confused to indignant. Supreme Overlord of Hell or not, Luci was a way to make Tyce—sick, droopy, quiet Tyce—act and feel like a four-year-old again. And he'd put up with Luci for _days _just to soften the blow for Harley_. _Why was she mad at him when he was only trying to help? "You don't understand, Parker."

"Then help me u-understand! Because all I understand is that you're throwing away s-something that brings Tyce joy."

"All I _want_ is for Tyce to be happy, which is why I'm upset that you put me in a position where I have to break his heart!"

"It's just a cat! I don't see why this is such a big..big deal!"

"Just a cat!" Harley threw her hands into the air. Parker could see the tips of her fingers trembling. "It's not _just a cat_! It's a walking germ house and Tyce's immune system will be shredded once he starts treatments. Can I really risk that?"

"I…" Parker stammered, unbalanced from her words, but his skin still burned with anger. "I'm sure it will be fine. Luci's a clean cat. I watched her enough times to know...know that she is the world champion of cleaning herself. And what is the point of isolating Tyce if he's just going to be mis-miserable?"

_Scratchy hospital sheets. Painful yellow walls. Can't move, can't get comfortable, can't even talk brain not working right_–

Harley pulled him out before Parker could spiral into the memories, but her words made him just as anxious. "And pets are expensive! Our finances are already stretched thin; add vet bills and food and toys and they will cave completely. I'm not asking Joel to work even longer hours just so we can afford a cat! He can't...I won't do that."

Parker swallowed back his hurt (he and Harley told each other everything...right?) and said, "But...everything seemed fine. I-I didn't know."

"You weren't supposed to know. It's our problem, not yours." She turned her back to him, something she did whenever she was embarrassed and didn't want him to see. Her voice wobbled as she spoke, like she was on the edge of tears. "Can you please go?"

Parker's own vision blurred, coating his surroundings in a glossy sheen, but he was completely lost for words. So he grabbed Luci and moved slowly to the door, hesitating on the doorstep.

"I don't hate you," Harley assured in his silence. "You're a good kid, Parker. I know you were just trying your best. But I'm a little too emotional right now and I need some time to figure out how to break the news to Tyce before he gets back."

Parker nodded once, barely able to look up as Harley gave a weak smile and closed the door.

"I guess we're still stuck together," Parker said, trying to loosen the tightness in his throat. In his arms, Luci turned her head away from him. No hissing, or scratching, or biting. Not even a condescending glare.

And that's how Parker knew he'd messed up. Big time.

* * *

Due to their age difference, then the fallout of Parker's accident, Harley and Parker hadn't argued much when she still lived at home. Still, there had been a handful of serious disagreements after which Parker would ride his bike aggressively around the neighborhood while Harley locked herself away in her room. It usually took a day before Harley would approach him, at which point both were calm enough to apologize and never talk about it again. It wasn't a flawless system, but it worked for them.

But this time, Parker couldn't afford to wait an entire day. The guilt bubbling in his chest— combined with the nagging reveal of Harley's financial struggles—wouldn't let him. He could only spend so long stress-toasting before he'd used up all the bread in the house and needed something else to do.

"I know you wanted space," Parker blurted as Harley opened the door, no later than five hours after she'd last closed it on him. "And I know I'm the world's b-biggest nincompoop, but I just need you to hear me out for a minute and I'll be out of your hair." He shifted, the bag in his hand slipping, but he couldn't fix it due to the cat carrier in the other. "Well, I'll need more than sixty seconds b-but I'll promise to talk fast. Mom says I don't have a problem with that a-anyway so I–"

"Are you done?" Harley asked. She seemed a lot calmer, even if she did look warily at the large backpack weighing on Parker's shoulders and series of plastic bags hanging from his arms.

Parker snapped him mouth close. "Yep. Can...can I come in?"

Harley stepped aside and Parker shuffled past her, trying hard not to bang the carrier against the wall.

There was silence as Parker busied himself with placing down all his bags. It was Harley who broke it. "Did you walk here with all that?"

"Mom drove me."

Harley glanced at the cat carrier, where Luci was experimentally poking her paw through one of the slats. "And she didn't question the cat?"

"She thinks I'm addicted to screamo music right now, so I think Luci's reveal was the least-shocking part of her week."

"That makes one of us."

Parker straightened, ran a hand across the back of his head, and said, "Which is why I'm here. I-I'm sorry. I'm not good with the word stuff. I have a lot of them, but I'm not good...not good at them. So it's probably best if I just show you some things."

He unzipped the backpack and pulled out what looked to be a small, cushioned throne. Glittering plastic swords decorated it's back and arms.

"Cat bed." He explained at Harley's bewildered expression. "And toys," —Feathers, balls, and fabric mice found their way on the coffee table— "brushes"—patterned with tiny cacti (Mademoiselle would live on in memory)—"litter"—landing with a heavy thump, nearly squashing his toes—"and finally, food"—enough to provide Luci 30 daily meals for a whole month. Parker rubbed his hands together. "Everything a cat-disguised-demon could ever need. Well, almost everything."

Harley's mouth opened, then closed as she took in the massive pile in front of her, before it opened again. "Parker…"

"There's Luci herself, of course," Parker said, patting the cat carrier beside him. He flinched as Luci's paw lashed out, grappling his finger, but his words didn't falter. "She's now up-to-date on all her v-vaccinations. Healthy as can be, free to haunt me for the next fifteen years. Or longer, because let's face...face it: she'll outlive me out of spite. Oh! And I did some research!" He pulled a stapled packet from the bottom of the backpack, pages crumpled, and smoothed it out on his lap. "Indoor animals are less likely to catch and pass along diseases and can even improve m-moral. But…" _Come on, Parker. Spit it out. _"But, if you'd be more comfortable, I could watch...watch her while Tyce is in for treatments."

Harley's voice was quiet. Thoughtful. "How much did this cost you?"

Two months' salary (if Parker thought Harley's playground had been depressing, he hadn't been prepared for the sight of his near-empty wallet). "More than this cat is worth, but don't worry about it."

He glanced up, meeting Harley's eyes for the first time. Although she didn't look angry, her face was unreadable, which heightened Parker's nerves. He forced himself to maintain eye contact, although his hands fidgeted. "But d-don't feel like you're obligated to take her. You were right, it was unfair of me to drop this on you. I'll...keep her if you don't want to. But…" He took a deep breath. "You don't have to do it alone, either. And I'm _going _to help whether you like it or not, so you're stuck with me, and if that means I have to be stuck with a cat, then o-okay. That's okay."

Harley eyed him for a few seconds, before she laughed. Parker slumped back at the release of tension, relieved grin making its way onto his face. He watched as his sister sat down on the other side of Luci's carrier, reaching for the latch. "So this is Lucifer?"

"What did I say about her true–" Parker cut himself off, deciding it was fruitless. "I should probably get her out, since she knows me…"

But Luci was already curled up on Harley's lap, looking at him smugly through half-lidded eyes as she purred. _Brat._

"She's cute," Harley admitted. Then, louder, "Tyce, come here for a moment!"

There were soft footsteps as Tyce came around the corner, eyes a little red. Then his expression brightened, sunlight seeming to stream from every pour, as he squealed, "Tuxedo!"

He raced forward and scooped her into his arms, where she nudged her head under his chin. He giggled and looked at them with owlish eyes. "Did you change your mind, Momma? Can we keep her?"

Harley gazed sternly at Parker. "You'll watch her every time Tyce goes in? No complaining?"

"Yes. At least, to one of those things."

"And you're willing to help pay for food? And care?"

"Gosh, Harley. Yes!" Parker said. Thankfully, his new coworker at Kapow! Comics was cute, so he had some extra motivation to work longer hours. "I gave a whole speech and e-everything!"

Harley held out a hand and Parker clasped it. She gripped tighter, Parker following suit until the pressure was too much and he had to pull away with a grimace. He never could win. With a triumphant smirk, Harley leaned forward to tell Tyce, "She's all yours, bud."

And that's how Parker found himself locked in a pact with the devil, but if Luci could keep that smile on Tyce's face, maybe it was all worth it.

Still, Parker thought, it wouldn't hurt to stockpile his ego—just a little bit—to prepare for when Luci would inevitably tear it down again.

"What do you think, partner?" he asked, kneeling down in front of Tyce. "Am I the World's Funnest Uncle or what?"

"No," Tyce said. Parker had less than a second to feel offended before his nephew gently lifted Luci off his lap and ran over, flinging his arms around his neck. "You're the World's _Bestest _Uncle."

That was good enough for him.


	5. A Study in Sentiment (Cami)

**A/N: **Another unnecessary and horrendously long Camilla oneshot, but hey, she's been living in my head for over three years so she's easy to write for. Anyway, enjoy some awkward and angsty teenage Cami. And a "plot" that is 90% conversation but I'm too sick of looking at this thing to change it.

* * *

**A Study in Sentiment**

It begins when Camilla trips and both her body and dignity are sent sprawling across the sidewalk.

Her palms burn but she takes a minute to sit on the ground, watching blood well up around the small bits of gravel embedded in her skin. The blanket she'd been carrying—made by some great aunt she's never met—lies halfway in the road, and even through her pained tears Camilla can see black smudges on the fabric.

A curse begins to form before the filter from spending too much time around children takes over and she spits out, "Fudge!"

"Huh. I never thought something sweet could sound so bitter, but you just proved me wrong."

A pair of scuffed shoes comes into her vision, followed by an extended hand.

Heat immediately flares across her face, and it's a few stretched seconds before she can fully look at the witness to her misfortune. It's a boy, probably a year or two older, with blue eyes and a tuft of light brown hair that flops to one side. He's laughing at her, while she can only stare up at him dumbly.

"That was a pretty big spill. Here, let me help."

Camilla's senses flicker back on. With a forced smile she waves him off, not wanting to smear blood on his skin or clothing. That would be rude of her, and frankly, she's having a hard enough time holding back tears _without _aggravating her scrapes further.

The movement is enough to draw his attention to her bloody palms, and the laughter dies as quickly as it came. "Oh, shit! I mean, shoot. Sorry, didn't mean to assault your innocent ears."

"I'm not innocent," Camilla says, and she immediately closes her eyes because _of course_ those are her first words to this stranger. It's been an off day, though she knows that's no excuse, and she's grateful Uncle Jefferson isn't around to witness what is steadily growing to be a dumpster fire of a conversation.

But the boy just snorts, hooks a hand around her elbow, and lifts her to her feet. Camilla hastens to straighten up the best she can, a respectful "thank you" sitting on her tongue. He speaks before she can.

"Sure, because 'fudge' is what I'd yell if I left half my skin smeared on the pavement. You couldn't make an angel blush. Although, _you _are blushing, so maybe that makes _you_ an angel."

He smiles at her, flashing teeth that are a little big for his boyish face.

Camilla blinks, because she's only fourteen and has very limited experience with these things, but she suspects this might be flirting. And it's bad flirting, because despite the increasing warmth in her cheeks, she's feeling a little nauseated.

It's enough to break any composure she has. She can't even bring herself to feel guilty when she says, "That was terrible."

The boy frowns, but even then his eyebrows refuse to furrow, as though they are permanently raised in amusement. "Damn it. That's what Sylvia said."

"Sylvia?"

"My girlfriend. She says I need to up my game, so I guess I won't be using that line on her."

"Ah." _Smart boy, _Camilla thinks, but instead of saying so she takes a step back to retrieve the blanket. "Thank you for helping me, really. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time."

"Nope," the boy says, swooping in to grab it himself, and Camilla's eyes snag on a slight rip in the corner; her stomach coils at the thought of explaining that when she gets home. "I don't think you should be picking anything up until we take care of those hands of yours." His eyes drift down to her knees, where red glistens angrily against her light brown skin. "And the rest of you, apparently."

Her fingers twitch towards the blanket anyway, but he drapes it around her neck like a scarf and tells her to "stay" before racing to a building across the street. Camilla fidgets, glancing between the building, the sidewalk ahead, and the park behind her. She could leave before he comes back, but it's been a while since she's talked to someone her own age and she can't deny a part of her isn't curious. She moves towards the park's single swing set; the dark green frame glimmers with what must be a recent paint job, but it creaks when she sits, betraying its age.

Markus reappears, and seeing where she perches stiffly in her blanket cocoon, flops into the neighboring swing to show her a white container.

"First aid kit," he explains.

"Oh! That's not necessary..." Embarrassment bleeds through the cracks in her voice. Her house is only a few blocks away (not that he knows that), and she must look really ragged if he's trying to patch her up.

"I know," he says, "and while I came out here to help you, you're actually doing me the favor. I'm supposed to be helping with my brother's pottery exhibit but the less time I spend in there the happier we'll both be." He opens the kit and squints at a label for antibiotic cream. "So, what were you doing before the sidewalk attacked you?"

He asks this lightly, as though he doesn't have a single care in the world and expects her to have the same. There's this _levity _to him, so unlike anything she's used to, and she hesitates. "I was at the cemetery, visiting with my dead parents" seems like it would put a damper on things, even though it was probably the _best _part of her day, so she skips past that and says, "I was walking home."

"From the deep suburbs. Lucky you."

She's not sure how to reply to that, so she gives a small nod. "My name is Camilla."

"So formal," the boy says, but he drops the ointment and holds out a hand regardless. "Markus."

"I don't mean to be rude, but no thanks." She holds up her palms.

"Right. In that case I'm going to subtly transition into one of these." He lightly bumps her elbow with his own. The touch startles her, sending prickles up her arm, but the ridiculousness of the action elicits a soft laugh.

This causes Markus to smile again. She finds it a little unnerving how easily he's able to do that.

"Okay, Camilla. That laugh is adorable. You know what that means."

She doesn't, but he's staring directly into her eyes and alertness prickles along her entire body.

"It means we're friends now."

She tries not to shrink back as a voice eerily like Uncle Jefferson's hisses that it's too good to be true. She barely even knows this boy, and there must be _something _he wants if he's warmed up to her this quickly.

_But, _Camilla thinks, _maybe there isn't?_

He meticulously places bandages over her cuts, eyes and movements sincere—nothing like the children she hangs out with at her Uncle's work events. Even with Janine, her closest friend, it took a while to feel this at ease.

Camilla stays. She figures she could always throw the blanket at him and climb to safety if he tries something, busted hands and knees withstanding. Until then, there can't be much harm in talking to him for an hour or two.

"I think we're moving a little fast," she says, even as she feels herself smiling, "but yes, I'd like to be friends."

* * *

She blames the stupid pickup lines.

Maybe she's developed a soft spot for them after two years' service as Markus' sounding board. They're dumb and annoying and unforgivingly cheesy, and not even direct interrogation from His and Her Royal Majesties would lead her to admit it, but deep, _deep _down, some twisted part of her enjoys them.

And now she's half an hour away from her first date with Markus. Her first date ever, actually, and Janine is the only reason she's not as frazzled on the outside as she feels on the inside.

"The pickup lines didn't make you tell him yes, Cami."

"They could have. No pickup lines mean no crush which means no lapse in judge—ouch!"

"Sorry," Janine says, but she pulls the braid even tighter against Camilla's head as she crafts it into a bun. "I know I should be more concerned than proud that you're finally going out with Midnight Mystery Man, but if you _do_ get murdered no one can say you didn't look gorgeous."

She steps back to examine her work, frowns, and re-enters Camilla's personal space to fix a few wayward strands. Everything looks perfectly acceptable to Camilla, but she knows better than to question her friend's vision.

"I'm fine. It'll all be fine," she mutters. "But I... I really don't want to mess this up."

She's risking her uncle's trust for a boy—a cute boy, but that's beside the point. She can't _afford _to mess this up.

"Not possible. I brought the good stuff; your hair's guaranteed to hold even if you get caught in a blizzard." Janine wields the hairspray with reckless abandon. A sharp chemical scent, laced with something floral, itches Camilla's nose. "As for your date, we'll just go to the club and catch you a rebound if it all goes belly up."

"Again, I'm not sneaking into a club. Even if I survived, Uncle Jefferson would just kill me when he found out."

Janine grabs a brush and jabs it in Camilla's direction. "Who's the one covering for this rebellious outing? You owe me."

"Like how you owe me for fixing those six pieces of stapled cardboard you called a birdhouse?"

"All I did was ask for advice! _You're _the one who turned it into an episode of _Illéan Home Improvement._"

Camilla rolls her eyes and slips into a dark navy peacoat—not her usual style, but Janine had gone to the trouble to bring it over—before leaving her bedroom. York is outside Niel's door, encircling it with plastic dinosaurs. As she passes, Camilla raises her eyebrows and feigns knocking on Niel's door, to which York scowls and sticks out his tongue. She tousles his silky hair so he giggles, and the strain in her shoulders lessens.

"Two words, Camilla: birdhouse blueprints. I'm still not over it."

Camilla frowns, even though Janine can't see it from behind. "Those blueprints got you a girlfriend, which I still need a 'thank you' for, by the way…"

She trails off as they reach the bottom of the stairs to see Uncle Jefferson on the living room couch. He appears to be reviewing assignments, a drawn sigh the only sign of frustration as his pen ticks across the page. He's supposed to be in his study and the sight causes Camilla to pause long enough for him to notice and lock her in place with his stare.

She presses her lips together, meets his gaze steadily, and prays he can't sense the rapid beating of her heart.

"Janine," he greets. "It's been a while. I was growing concerned that my niece had cut connections."

"I'm still around, sir, just been busy with school and helping at the clinic," Janine says, voice a bit too bright.

"Your parents must be proud," Uncle Jefferson replies, and Camilla finds it hard to swallow even before he turns his attention back to her. "I trust you'll be back at a reasonable hour?"

"Of course, Uncle," she says, but his pen is already moving, slashing red mark after red mark.

Janine shivers when they step onto the front porch, which Camilla would credit to the February chill if not for the wary glance she sends at the closed door.

"Not that I don't wholeheartedly support you keeping mystery boy from your uncle," she says, "but does Markus know he's your dirty little secret?"

"Of course he does! It was his idea to not tell my uncle in the first place."

"Yeah, for this date, because he knows how skittish you are about it. Don't give me that look—it's like you ice over any time He-Who-Shan't-Be-Named is mentioned. But what about the next one—"

"There's no guarantee—"

"—or the one after that? Don't you think he'll get suspicious after you're married with twelve children and he still hasn't met your family?"

At Camilla's silence, she sighs, her breath a whitish-silver swirl that wafts upwards before fading against the clouded sky. "You're going to have to tell him eventually. Both of them."

Camilla knows this, the guilt of lying to both Markus and her family saturates her in shadow, but she refuses to look at it. There were few expectations that first day at the swing set, and every day and night on the swing set since. With Markus, she's just Camilla. It's a rare luxury she wants to cling to as long as possible.

"I'll come clean when you ask your parents about opening a salon." It's a low blow. Regret pools deep in her stomach as she watches Janine fiddle agitatedly with the bracelet on her wrist, but it's the only thing that will get her to drop the subject.

"Sure. As soon as cutting hair miraculously becomes worthy of a Three." Her voice holds a bitter tinge, but she shakes her head and gestures to a car idling on the street corner. "Look. Your chariot's here."

"Oh gosh." Seeing Markus somewhere other than the park is surreal, and while Camilla's able to hold her panic at bay, it does nothing to slow her thoughts. What if the last two years of friendship were a fluke? "What if he decides he actually hates me?"

"Hey!" Janine snaps. "You're a babe. I know it, you know it, and if he's even the slightest bit human then he knows it." Camilla manages a tight smile and Janine readjusts the scarf around her neck. "It's a museum and a drink, Cami. Nothing that basic can go wrong."

* * *

The Belcourt Heritage Museum is only 45 minutes from Camilla's hometown, but it becomes a two-hour drive after Markus' car tire goes flat and they realize neither one of them knows how to change it.

Thankfully, the car is on loan from Markus' brother. Who, he explains, "Painted it green to promote renewable energy. The eye-searing hue is because he's always been a dramatic S.O.B." The lime green vehicle quickly draws the attention of a middle aged woman who _does _know how to change a tire, refuses to be paid for it, and proves to have a sharp tongue when she catches Camilla trying to slip said payment into her purse.

When they dofinally arrive at the museum, they realize it's Sunday.

"So, funny story," Markus says, stepping back from the locked doors and drawing Camilla's attention away from the building's exterior. She hasn't seen anything like it in person, structured as though someone stacked old building blocks haphazardly on top of each other. "Turns out the museum is closed on Sundays."

An easy grin stretches across his face, hands relaxed in his coat pockets, but he's looking everywhere except at her.

_He's embarrassed, _Camilla realizes. The thought gives her enough courage to grab his arm and pull him away from the doors.

"Well, good thing I know more about this place than your average date. Before us is a fascinating specimen of Brutalism. You can tell from the simple, block-like structure and exposed concrete. Rather rudimentary, if you ask me."

Embarrassment melts into confusion on his face, but he humors her as she guides him around the grounds and mocks the architecture in an overly-posh accent. The wind is biting, pressing against any exposed skin like a cold knife, but the museum grounds are quiet and peaceful. Early daffodils poke up in areas where the snow has started to melt, and although they'll shrivel with the next snowstorm, for now they provide cheerful spots of color. It doesn't take much for Markus to join her, critiquing the building's lack of color and placement of the benches.

Camilla's completely numb by the time they retreat to a small cafe for hot chocolate. She can't feel her face, but as she waits for Markus to order, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the front window and sees a smile.

"Careful with that, you'll only make it hotter." Markus hands the drink to her with a wink. She playfully shoves his arm, and it's not all that different from the park. She's almost forgotten that they're on a date.

Then another customer darts past and clips her shoulder, causing Camilla to stagger backwards. Her hand slams against Markus' chest. Hot chocolate explodes across the front of his white coat.

They stare at each other, dark drops splattering on the floor between them.

"I'm so sorry!" Camilla blurts. She whirls around, grabs a handful of napkins, and begins to frantically blot them against Markus' coat. The stain refuses to lighten, and she presses harder to distract from the pressure building behind her eyes. "I'm so, so sorry!"

"Cam, it's okay," he reassures, grabbing her wrists. He's smiling, but she struggles to bring her features back to calm. She should be handling this gracefully, not panicking and frantically waving dirty napkins around. This never would have happened in the first place if she'd been more alert. "We'll call it karma for me being an idiot and taking you to a museum without even checking the hours."

That makes her pause, and she forces a deep breath. This is Markus, not her uncle. The expectations are different.

"I... I didn't need to go to a museum today," Camilla says, and only the need to reassure Markus keeps her from gagging on the words, "when you are already a work of art."

Markus lifts his phone and takes a picture.

That wasn't the reaction she expected. "What was that?"

"I've never seen you look so disgusted," he says, "and I needed to document this historical moment."

"I'm never doing that again," Camilla warns, and he finally laughs. Maybe she can salvage this after all. There's only a tiny tremor in her voice when she asks, "So, not bad for a first date?"

"Oh god, no! This is hands-down the worst date I've ever been on," Markus says, but before she can think about it too much, he slings an arm around her shoulders and draws her against his side. "Which means we'll have to go on a second one to make up for it."

The scent of his cologne—even dampened by hot chocolate—is too nice for her to tell him no.

* * *

Days where Camilla has the house to herself are few and far between, so when she has a chance to finally invite her sort-of-not-really boyfriend over, she takes it.

She's used to sneaking out for climbing trips or meetings with Markus, and there's an odd smugness that comes with successfully sneaking something in for a change. Not that there's a need for them to be sneaking around: Uncle Jefferson is giving a lecture five provinces over and Aunt Amelia and the cousins are out enjoying one of her rare days off. Still, Camilla can't help but peek around each corner before pulling Markus along.

"You weren't kidding, this house is a ghost town," Markus says, neck craned as he examines a high shelf decorated with colorful, woven baskets. "Not even any family pictures! Are you sure your cousins aren't hiding under the couch cushions? You talk about them enough."

There's something in his voice—Anticipation? Wariness? It's too subtle to tell—but he appears relatively unbothered, so she guides him over to the couch.

"Nope, just us. I have plans," she says.

Markus never blushes, but she can tell from the way he stumbles that she's caught him off-guard. "Really? And what are these _plans _of yours?"

"G-rated plans." She tosses the television remote at him and he smoothly catches it despite her poor aim. "I'll be right back."

She takes her time gathering a blanket from her room and snacks from the kitchen. By the time she returns, Markus is nestled in the corner of the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table.

"Really? _Livin' It with the Lefrays? _We have countless stations and _this _is what you want to watch?"

He smirks in reply. "Come on, Cam. I can't help it! They're all so attractive, although not nearly as pretty as you."

Camilla scoffs, but lifts his arm so it falls around her and she can snuggle against his side. She can feel Markus' gaze searing her skin, but she stares resolutely at the television.

"Wow, you're a cuddler. Never would have expected that."

"Hush," she mutters, pulling the blanket tight around her as though that will help dampen her nerves.

Her heartbeat slows as the minutes pass, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest. It's ridiculous, how calming it is to be tangled up with someone else. She feels softer, like his warmth thaws her and lulls the negative emotions that thrash between her ribs to sleep.

_Safe, _her mind whispers. From what, she's not sure.

It doesn't seem to have the same effect on Markus. He's receptive, careful not to jostle her when he moves, occasionally pulling her closer, but he doesn't melt like she does.

_That's fine, _she thinks. She's happy to let him enjoy his trashy reality show so long as the cuddle session continues.

Happy, that is, until he says, "I don't think the cuddle potato enjoys this show very much."

"C-cuddle potato?" Camilla pulls away, blinking rapidly. Markus has had bad lines before, but this is _horrifying. _All ease scatters to the furthest corners of her mind. "What in the—just—_what?_"

Markus at least has the sense to look ashamed. "Uh, I was going for a mix between 'cuttlebug' and 'couch potato.' Fine, it wasn't my best work. We'll just ignore it."

"No, no," Camilla says, choking back a laugh. "We are going to sit here and talk until you understand that you will _never _use that pet name again."

"Come on, there's got to be worse names than 'cuddle potato.' It's not _that _bad."

"It really is. Anyone who can find me a nickname worse than that is special indeed."

"Way to fault a guy for trying to be romantic."

Camilla eases back against him as a truce but can't help one last teasing jab. "You're not romantic. If you want proof, I'll remind you that I learned your girlfriend's name before yours."

"That was a credential! I had to prove I was boyfriend material, and besides, I've learned since then." He props his chin on her head as he says, "It obviously worked, since you're my girlfriend now."

A sliver of unease threads through her—she kind of wishes they had talked about this, that she had time to properly think it through—but it's lost in Markus' warmth and the thrill that someone noticed her. That there's finally a part of her life not so deeply intertwined with her family.

"I guess I am," she says.

* * *

Camilla never thought she'd be the type to hide a boyfriend behind her guardians' backs, but here she is, stealing away during her cousins' tutoring sessions, carefully plotting the time between her own lessons and when Uncle Jefferson is away. He hasn't seemed to notice, his manner still a little distant but no more than usual. Aunt Amelia does catch her wearing Markus' sweatshirt and baseball cap—a last-minute disguise he'd been confused yet amused to help her with when they walked a little too close to the university—but she plays it off as a game the cousins came up with and her aunt doesn't give it much thought.

If anything, it's her cousins that give her the most trouble.

"Your face looks funny," York says one day, propping his elbows on the table and leaning towards her. "Like you tasted something bad or something."

He's only eight, so it's not the bluntness of his statement that surprises Camilla but rather that she's making a face for him to notice in the first place. She was only sketching; she glances down at the blank sketchpad and okay, maybe she'd been thinking about Markus and the night before, when they'd gone to a movie that was playing in their park. She remembers very little about the actual movie, but can still feel the press of his hand against her back as he walked her to the street corner, the warmth of his breath as he whispered good night.

She'd been so sure that he was going to kiss her. Camilla drops her pencil. Did she _want _him to kiss her? Had he been waiting for her to kiss him instead?

She's smacked—quite literally—out of her thoughts when York claps the back of his hand against her forehead. It doesn't hurt, but it's forceful enough that she jerks back.

"You're hot," he says, hand braced against her long enough that Camilla has to gently remove it. "Maybe you did eat something bad and it made you sick. Was it beans? I _told _you that beans were gross."

"I'm not sick," Camilla says. "It's just really warm in here. The heater might be broken."

"I don't believe you." York squints at her, his entire face scrunched in thought, then gasps. "Did you play a prank on Niel, and you don't want us to know? You are _really _bad at hiding it. Why didn't you tell me? I wanted to help!"

"She didn't plan a prank because Cami's not annoying like you," Niel says, glancing up from his book. Camilla had forgotten he was there—he's been so moody lately, and she's not sure if she should attribute that to 12-year-old hormones or something else. "But you have been weird lately, all giggly and stuff."

"I've been reading up on Frank Lloyd Wright and it's exciting, that's all," she says. "What's with the interrogation? Is it really that weird that I'm happy?"

Niel ducks his head and grumbles, "No." Then, softer, he asks, "You, um, didn't actually plan a prank, did you?"

"Of course not! That's York's job. I'm not about to dethrone him."

"Good." He returns to his book, York darts out of the room on a mission that will surely come back to bite them later, and Camilla works to swallow her remorse, which she can feel growing darker, solidifying like lead. She's lying to them, which she's done before—usually to keep them from worrying—but never on this grand a scale.

Still, there's no way she can risk this getting out, not even for a clear conscious.

_I'm not being selfish, _she thinks, ignoring how desperate her thoughts sound, even to her. _I can have this, just this once. I'll tell them later, no harm done. They'll know soon._

_Soon._

* * *

"I think it's broken!"

"I'm sorry," Camilla says. She pulls a hand away from her throbbing mouth to find a small amount of blood streaked on her fingertips. Heat flares in both her face and voice. "Actually, no. This one's on you. You should have warned me!"

"I was going in for a cheek kiss! How was I supposed to know you would freak out and _turn your head? _You could weaponize that thing; it's like a battering ram!"

Markus' voice is slightly muffled as he prods at his sore nose, but there's no outward sign of injury. Camilla, meanwhile…

"I'm bleeding," she says pointedly, which is enough to prompt Markus to drop the dramatics.

"It's your lip." He tilts her face up to better examine it. His fingers are surprisingly soft against her jawline. "You must have bit it when we collided."

Without thinking, she licks at it, and sure enough feels a sting accompanied by a coppery tang.

"Great," she sighs. "Now I have to find an exc—"

He kisses her. It's quick, and his mouth brushes up against her cut, causing her to flinch. What could only be described as a squeak works its way up from her chest, darting into the air between them when he pulls back. They make eye contact for a brief moment—she wonders if she's as pale as he is—before he leans back in, favoring the side of her mouth opposite her injury. He moves slow, giving her enough time to back away. Camilla holds steady.

Her teeth and gums still pulsate with pain, and his lips are slightly chapped, but they are gentle against hers and—

_Oh._

She could get used to this.

* * *

No matter what Janine teases, Camilla's not lovestruck, or lovesick, or lovelorn, or any other words that would make Sadie sigh dreamily and York mime vomiting into a bucket. The word "love" is tucked away, wrapped in layers and layers of protective casing, because it's something she's sure she'll break if she becomes careless enough to let it out without consideration; her uncle's trained her well enough to recognize that. She loves Markus, certainly—she loves her family and friends, too—but everything is too new and chaotic and she's not _in _love with him. Not yet.

She is, however, giddy. It's a new feeling, bubbling up in her stomach and bouncing along her skin until it reaches her brain and turns her dizzy. She regards it warily, at first, convinced that it will pop at any second and leave her to drown in the darker stuff, but one week turns into two turns into three and the haze doesn't leave.

Markus takes her back to the museum (not a Sunday, this time) and rolls his eyes while she complements the curves on the Corinthian columns. Then she pulls him behind one and he decides they aren't that bad after all.

She gives him a cheesy coffee mug for his birthday, something she's proud of until he points out that his eyes are blue and not, as the mug states, "Pretty Brown Eyes." His laughter is the only thing keeping her from burning in embarrassment right then and there.

He takes her to a buffet with the largest portions she's ever seen, and she takes him to one of her favorite places to stargaze (a hill on the north side of town—there's a tree that's even better but he refuses to leave the ground no matter how much she coaxes or begs).

And kissing; there's some of that, too.

They fall into an easy rhythm: he teaches and she learns. He shines and she reflects. It's becoming a little harder to keep control of her emotions, a small smile pestering the corners of her mouth, and there's always the nagging shadow of her guilt, but things are good. Really good.

She should have known it couldn't last.

* * *

What it all boils down to is this: she grows careless, comfortable in the security of Markus' arms around her, warmed by his carefree laughter that melts into a hum as she presses her lips to his. The world softens, muffling even the pulse of _tell them, tell him, liar _that grows stronger the longer she allows herself to indulge in this rose-colored charade.

But the real world eventually catches up, sinking its claws into those who can't harness their weakness. "You must control it, or else it will control you," Uncle Jefferson had told her, time and time again.

_Fitting, _she thinks bitterly, _that he would be the one to break the illusion._

He's sitting at his desk—has been for the last few minutes—shuffling papers and refusing to glance in her general direction. He's trying to recompose himself, and it's unnerving how easily she can read him, from the angry clench of his jaw to the displeased furrow of his brow.

Camilla is stone, every fiber of her body tense. There's an urge to fill the silence, offer some explanation, but she keeps her lips pressed together so tightly that they're starting to go numb. It's no use. He came home early, caught her and Markus together, and there's nothing she can do but stand and watch as a glass house of her own making shatters and showers her with the pieces.

"When he was seventeen, your father thought he fell in love," Uncle Jefferson says. The pages flip with a soft _shf. _His gaze remains fixed on them, but his voice is low, lined with ice and thunder. "She was a pretty girl. Charming, smart, and not at all afraid to use my brother to her advantage. Not that that mattered to him—he all but told me he was going to marry her.

"Luckily, your father was intelligent. He was the top of his class, receiving offers from all over Illéa: universities and companies who saw his potential and had the resources to shape it into something more. Jackson knew that if this potential were to ever be fully realized, then it wasn't going to be with her. So he came to his senses and broke it off. It hurt his heart, yes, but he became a great man for it." The papers are placed on the edge of the desk, perfectly aligned with the corner and each other. "Your father knew where his priorities lay; I'd hoped that you would as well."

He looks up. The disappointment in his brown eyes is suffocating, pressing down on her like a thick, black fog. Distantly, she's aware of the coolness of the study's wooden floor as it soaks into her bare feet, a cold comfort.

"You have responsibilities, Camilla. How long have you been putting them off for some boy?"

They haven't been dating for that long—only six weeks. Not that much time, in the grand scheme of things. But Markus has been her friend for years, and it doesn't sit right how Uncle Jefferson seems to view him as something trivial.

"Markus isn't _some boy,_" Camilla says, the words hot enough to cut through the sour taste in her mouth. "He is my friend. He isn't...he isn't a distraction. He isn't using me." He scoffs, and she almost steps forward to grasp his hands, as if her touch would soften him, help him to see reason. If he was anyone other than her uncle, maybe it would. "I enjoy spending time with him. Please, Uncle, I know you're upset—that was never my intention—but just _look. _I've been attentive to my chores, and my tutor has had no complaints about my work. Nothing has suffered for it."

He leans forward. "What about Niel, Sadie, and York?"

Cold crackles across her skin, dousing any fight. "W-what?"

"Time is a precious resource. Don't think they haven't detected your absence the last few weeks. I thought it was because you had been making better use of your time but that was obviously not the case. Can you really say they haven't suffered for it?"

The truth—the sad, stinging truth—is that he's not wrong. She _has_ seen her cousins less since dating Markus, realizes how they seem to cling to her longer when she is home. They're young. They need her.

Markus doesn't.

Her shoulders slump. She's shaking, but she can't tell if it's from anger, shame, or the knowledge of what she has to do next.

"I'm sorry," she says, subdued. "I've been...shortsighted." _Selfish._

Uncle Jefferson simply nods. "I gave you my trust, Camilla, but you've proven that I need to be more cautious before I do so again. I suggest you consider if this was all worth it."

* * *

"You're kidding. You've got to be goddamn kidding me!"

Markus laughs, but it's all wrong. Grating, devoid of any joy, like sunlight smothered by cloud cover. She wants to pull him into her arms and comfort him, but she can't. Not when she's the cause of his hurt.

"Markus, I... I'm sorry. I really am. But it's what's best for both—"

"Did he hurt you?"

Markus steps forwards, firmly gripping both her shoulders while his eyes study her face intently. His hands seem to burn through her jacket where they touch her, but it doesn't beat the burn in her throat as she gently steps away from him. Distance doesn't make it any easier to breathe.

"Who? My uncle? No, he wouldn't hurt me. Not like that," she soothes. Her arms have been wrapped around her stomach as both protection from the cold wind and Markus' reaction, but she forces them to her side so she isn't as small on the outside as she feels on the inside.

Markus doesn't look convinced.

"We were making out on your couch not even an hour ago, then you speak all of five minutes with the man and suddenly you want to break it off. Don't tell me he _didn't _do something to you."

The implication sits uncomfortably, and she can't keep all the bite from her words when she says, "And who are you to decide? You don't know him well enough to make that judgement!"

"I don't, and whose fault is that?" His voice rises, not yet a yell, but it rattles through Camilla regardless. He begins to pace the length of the porch, jerking his head away every time she tries to meet his eyes. "I never tried to push you, because I kept telling myself that you must have had a good reason for it. Maybe you were just really shy. Maybe you had some teenage rebellion you needed to work through. Maybe you were waiting for the right time. But now I can see you were just _embarrassed _of me!"

"That is _not—_"

He whirls to face her, eyes glossy and rimmed with red. "You weren't ever going to introduce me to them, were you? I was always just going to be your side gig, never a part of your _real_ life."

"Stop putting words in my mouth! Please, just let me—"

"Too ashamed of me because I didn't meet your perfect standards, huh?"

"It wasn't you!"

"'It's not you, it's me.' Cliché, but sure."

"I was ashamed of myself!" Camilla screams, words searing her throat and cleaving through the air. She _never _yells, and the wrongness of it settles on both of them. Markus swallows, stuffing his hands into his pockets. When Camilla continues, her voice is quieter, and there's nothing she can do to hide how it trembles.

"My uncle isn't a bad man. Strict, yes, but he took me in when I had no one, and everything he does is because he wants the best for us. But he has these...expectations that he wants me to live up to, and I don't always meet them. I try, and I try, but it isn't always enough. And, with you I... I didn't feel any of that. You're so fearless and untroubled that whenever I'm around you I feel like I can be the same.

"But I'm not the same, Markus. I'm reserved and uneasy and I deluded myself into playing pretend," she says. Something bends in her chest, collapsing in on itself, and she can feel her face grow more expressionless with each word, defensive armor rising. "I was scared that if you ever saw that then you'd decide I wasn't worth it, so I kept you a secret, and my family a secret. I'm sorry I did, because you don't deserve to be dragged into this."

Markus yanks a hand through his hair, brown strands bowing under the weight. When their eyes meet, there's nothing but a pure exhaustion that reflects her own. "That's a load of bullshit. Do you really think that low of me? I never would have—hell, it doesn't matter. I don't even know how to get through to you right now."

Camilla tenses, because there's nothing he needs to _get through _to her about, but her retort is cut short when he says, "Just...answer me this: do you actually want to break up?"

"My cousins need me right now, and you deserve my full attention."

"That's not an answer, Cam. Yes or no."

Hoarsely, she answers, "No."

"But you're not going to fight for us to be together, are you?" Not angry, or bitter, just resigned.

"I'm sorry."

"Okay," he says, and to her surprise, he pulls her into a hug. She feels something slip down her face, irritating her skin, and as she rests her head against his shoulder it soaks into his jacket. Her cheeks are still damp when he pulls back and says, "Take care of yourself?"

She only nods, not trusting herself to speak, not sure if she's more relieved or hurt that he's letting them go this easily. It has to happen, she knows that, but she'd expected more resistance.

He backs away, up the road towards that ridiculous lime green car. Then he's gone.

Sadness. Regret. Loneliness. They flare up, mixing into a strong emotional cocktail in her stomach. She doesn't have the time to process, to scream or cry, not when her uncle is standing on the other side of the door and her cousins are peering curiously from the upstairs window. It takes every bit of self-control she has to take a deep breath, mentally working her way through her body, slowly gathering up her nerves and tucking them away until she is able to stand straight again.

Her smile is closer to a grimace, just barely passable, but it's all she has to offer.

* * *

Camilla isn't sure how much Aunt Amelia knows, but when she comes down the next morning she finds a chocolate muffin and steaming mug—the twin to her aunt's empty one resting in the sink. The herbal tea is soothing, and warm, and her throat doesn't feel so raw after a few sips, her eyes a little less dehydrated.

This continues for a few days, and while Camilla appreciates the gesture, she knows her aunt is a busy woman. So on the fourth morning she wakes up early, presses a cup of coffee into her aunt's hands, and says, "Thank you, but I'm fine now."

Aunt Amelia gives her a knowing smile, though there's a hint of sadness when she replies, "Okay, hun."

Her cousins seem to sense that something is off, even if they don't know what it is. There's a constant prickle on the back of her neck from Niel's gaze as he watches her closely. She walks into her room sometimes to find soft piano music drifting from Sadie's music player. York lends her Bradley for a day just in case she needs an "emotional support lizard." It doesn't seem to matter how much she snarks at and teases them, they tread carefully with their words when they're around her, and she doesn't know how to assure them that she's fine; she's not going to break.

Uncle Jefferson is more closed-off than usual, harder to please despite her extra effort to follow every one of his rules exactly, but she'd expected this. It'll take a while before they can get back to where they were before. It's fine. It _is._

Really, for her first breakup, Camilla thinks she's handling it quite well. She knows that there's a stereotypical tradition involving ice cream and blankets and brooding, but after one day of hiding away in her bedroom, she's ready to leave. Sitting around feeling sorry for herself isn't doing anyone any good.

She's not ready to move on—it feels unfair to Markus, somehow—but she can't sit still either.

When a distraction arrives a week later in the form of Sadie getting sick, she counts it as a blessing. Not that her cousin sniffing and hacking up what must be a bucket's worth of mucus is a good thing, but Sadie likes to be babied—especially when she doesn't feel well—and Camilla would rather spoil her than reflect on the past few days, so it's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Even if Sadie can be a brat at times.

"I need more blankets," she groans. Her eyes drowsily trace Camilla around the room, but she still has enough energy to stick her bottom lip out in a pout. "Not that one, it's not fuzzy enough. That one isn't either. I need maximumal fuzziness, Cami!"

"Do you mean maximum or maximal?"

"That's what I said," Sadie grumbles, before launching into a long string of sneezes.

When they finally find one to her liking, Camilla tucks it firmly around her. "How's that?"

Sadie stares up at the ceiling in thought, nose running and dark hair splayed out in a frizzy halo across her pillow. Then she flails, trying to kick her way out of the snug cocoon. She succeeds in getting one leg free but the rest of her remains trapped, restrained even tighter than before.

"Now it's too hot!"

Camilla tries hard not to roll her eyes, and fails, but her nine-year-old cousin doesn't seem to notice. She removes two of the blankets and helps Sadie untangle herself from the rest.

"Is that better, Your Highness?"

At her amused tone, Sadie glares. The venom on her tiny face would be impressive if not for the pile of tissues from which she peers through. Camilla leans forward and presses a slobbery kiss to her feverish forehead, which prompts a "ew!" from Sadie, who tries frantically to wipe it away.

Camilla laughs. It's stilted, and doesn't quite reach her eyes, but it's the first time she knows she'll be okay. Yes, her heart is fractured, her trust in both herself and the world a little more feeble, but she's sixteen. She has time. With enough of it, she'll mend. She _has _to.

The world moves on.

* * *

_Can we talk? Tonight, at our place._

It takes five months, three days, and 36 drafts—weeks and weeks of staring at half-formed texts until her eyes burn, only to delete them later—before Camilla sends the message. The way that they left things festers, gnawing at her subconscious during daylight hours only to emerge fully at night. She would really like to put it to rest.

Markus never replies, but she climbs out her window and heads to the park anyway.

The swing set greets her with its usual squeak of protest as she sits and waits. A blend of peach and deep purple coats the sky, creating the perfect sunset save for a layer of wispy dark clouds that mar the colorful tapestry. Late summer warmth washes over her skin, leaving her hopeful, if a bit sweaty. She kicks her shoes off to the side and drags her feet so that they carve deep furrows into the wood chips, uncovering the cool, dark soil beneath.

Thirty minutes pass, then an hour. The color gradually fades, leaving room for the moon—nothing more than a yellow sliver—to take its place. She hadn't specified a time, but as it grows darker she starts to grow more worried, if a little foolish.

She pulls out her phone, rubbing her thumb thoughtfully along the corner before typing another message:

_I know it's weird. No pressure if you don't want to come._

Her finger hovers over the "send" button, before she sighs and deletes it. Of course he doesn't want to come. If he did, he'd be here by n—

"Sorry. I'm the worst at replying."

Camilla raises her head, and there Markus is. He stands on the edge of the playground, hands in his pockets, brow furrowed slightly.

"I'm the one who texted you out of nowhere." She offers a small smile in apology. "I guess I should have given you a warning."

Markus takes this as an invitation to move forward, claiming the swing beside hers. He's silent for a bit, studying her out of the corner of his eye. Then he clears his throat.

"You cut your hair."

Camilla's hand automatically reaches for her hair, the tips now curling just past her chin. She's been wearing it short for a while now, and while she's grown used to it, she can't help but feel a little self-conscious as Markus examines her.

The first couple months after the breakup were rough in many ways, but especially in that she couldn't risk doing anything that would upset her uncle. She was unofficially on house arrest, hardly leaving unless it was to attend one of his work functions or visit a family friend. She couldn't even sneak out to climb and relieve some of her stress—not until things calmed down. Climbing was one freedom of hers that she could never risk.

As a result, she was frustrated, jittery, and after the second month she approached Janine with a pair of scissors and told her to do whatever she wanted. Within reason, of course.

"I needed something new," Camilla says. "I like long hair, but I wanted to try out something different. Something..._lighter_, for a bit."

"You make it look good." There's a moment where the beginning of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but then it vanishes. He sighs, angling the swing so that he faces her, chains rattling as they twist together above his head. "Why are we here, Camilla?"

It's odd, hearing him use her full name. Not bad, necessarily, but it is a reminder of how much things have changed. Of how much still needs to be fixed between them.

"I've been thinking," Camilla says, slowly. She's rehearsed this several times over the past few days, and her voice grows stronger as she falls into the familiarity of it. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, about a lot of things. But mostly I keep thinking about the day we broke up, and how horrible I made you feel."

Markus hums and crosses him arms over his chest but says nothing else. Camilla works to swallow her nervousness, and she forces herself to make direct eye contact so he knows how serious she is.

"Before, when I'd talked to my uncle, he told me to consider if this—if our relationship—was all worth it. It took me a while to figure out that it was. It was _absolutely_ worth it. But I never told you that, and I don't want you to think that you aren't worth anything to me. Our friendship, it _was _important. It got me through a lot, and I... I miss that. You don't owe me anything—I'm not expecting things to go back to how they were before—but I'm sorry if I ever made you feel disposable, because you're not." She pauses, before adding, a little awkwardly, "That all. Just thought you should know."

Markus is quiet. As the silence stretches on, ballooning between them, Camilla fidgets with her hands. Then panic begins to take over, and she makes to stand, to let him know that it's okay if he wants to leave now that she's said her piece. Before she can, his hand shoots out, fingertips brushing against her arm.

"Wait! I... damn, I'm not good at this. I'm glad you reached out. I've thought over that day too and, um, and I made some pretty nasty assumptions. Said some things that I should probably apologize for." He grimaces, but Camilla smiles gently.

"There's no need. I was breaking up with you out of nowhere and I'm sure my uncle's cheerful demeanor didn't help. I get it."

"Yeah, but that doesn't make it okay." He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "Honestly, you called me fearless, but the truth is I'm a freaking coward. You were right; there was… _a lot _to process with your family, and I didn't want to get dragged into that. So even though you were obviously upset, I took the coward's way out and ran."

"I'm the one that gave you an out," she offers. "It's nothing I couldn't handle on my own."

"That's the thing," Markus says, leaning forward, and Camilla suddenly feels as though a spotlight has been placed on her with how intense his eyes are. "You care about people, Camilla, and I've always looked up to you for that. You could only spread yourself so thin and letting me go was the easiest thing you could do to keep yourself from snapping. But I also think a part of it was because you weren't ready to put yourself first. You don't know how to."

Camilla frowns, apprehension rising because this was never supposed to be about her, but Markus holds up a hand.

"I'm not judging, I'm just saying that I know you _can _handle it on your own, but you _shouldn't _have to. Believe it or not, there are people who want to help you out. Even if it's just someone who'll listen to you gripe about your terrifying uncle."

She chuckles despite herself. "Are you offering?"

"If that's something you want."

She takes a moment to consider. The idea of confiding in Markus takes some getting used to, and she's not sure if she'll ever be able to tell him _everything, _but there is an allure to having someone other than Janine that she can share some things with. Plus, she's _missed _him. As much as she hates to admit it, Uncle Jefferson was right that love isn't in the cards for her. At least, not for now. But friendship? She'd been balancing that long before her uncle expressed his disapproval, and it would be a downright shame for her to let it go.

"You know what this means, right?" she says. Her voice is a little smug, but Markus is smirking too, as though he also remembers his words from so long ago.

"What?"

"It means we're friends now."

It's not that funny, but Markus laughs. It's loud, resonating around the entire park, filling it with warmth and prompting Camilla to laugh as well. A house light flickers across the street, and they both work to hold back their snickers until it turns off again.

Relief surges through her, and she grins, shaking her head gently to try and disperse the lightheadedness that comes with it. There's still some tension that hangs between them, the remnants of a bittersweet history that's unlikely to ever go away. She's changed, and she's sure he's changed, but despite it all, she has her friend back.

"Regretting your decision already?" Markus asks.

Camilla gives a wry smile. "I already told you I don't regret it—friendship and romance alike. Though I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"Naw." Markus stretches, giving a contented hum. "I got to date a future world-famous architect. If anything, I increased my chances of having a building named after me."

"The first public restroom I design will have your name on it."

"Ha, ha. You're a lot of things, Camilla, but a comedian you are not." His face softens, and he holds out an elbow to her. "Just to make sure, we're doing this 'friends' thing?"

"Yeah," she says, bumping his elbow with hers, satisfaction curling in her chest. "We're doing this friends thing."

And there, on a creaky old swing set three years after they first met, it begins again.


	6. Captain Candy Cane: Origins (Parker)

**A/N:** I YOLO-ed my way through this entire fic but I embrace the resulting ridiculousness wholeheartedly. Spoilers (I guess?) for the final chapters of TSatS, but they're the very loosely interpreted spoilers of a ten-year-old Parker so it's up to you if you want to risk it.

* * *

**Captain Candy Cane: Origins**

**/Chapter 1/**

Illéa City was under attack. Just an average Tuesday for the superhero capital of the world, but according to the column of smoke rising from City Hall, the attack was a bad one. A cloud of thick, gray crayon lingered above, pressed so hard against the sky that Troy could see a small tear in the upper right corner.

He nearly laughed. Everyone knew how flashy displays attracted heroes like radioactive moths to a light. The city's new overtaker would be overrun in no time!

Report's husky, reassuring voice washed over the streets, giving the same old spiel about staying calm and finding shelter as soon as possible, staying at least a hundred feet back from combat zones, not engaging with any masked persons. Murmurs drifted throughout the mall's parking lot as people moved obediently towards the nearest doorway.

"Come on," said Tammy, Troy's friend, as she pulled at his arm. "We should get inside."

Though Troy would've liked to assure her that they weren't going to be attacked, he didn't exactly have the best track record. Judging Tammy's frown, and the way her eyes scanned the sky with concern, she was already aware of that fact, so Troy allowed her to guide him into the crowd.

But, he could help but wonder, would it really be that big of a deal if they did come across a villain? He personally knew at least half the city's heroes because he was awesome like that (and _not _because he had to be frequently rescued by them).

They were nearing the mall's entrance when a scream sounded from behind, manifesting in a jagged text bubble that nearly brushed Troy's perfectly coiffed hair.

"Help! Help me—"

Troy turned just in time to see a man be engulfed in shadow. He writhed on the ground, screaming as pitch black crawled across his body. The crowd watched in horror, some gaping and stumbling back a few steps, others making to run. Troy himself felt a tug of fear. This wasn't the mediocre work of the Twinces or the Pressparazzi or any other villain of the week; this was a power never seen before. Black seeped into the man's mouth and eyes, and with one final gurgle, he stilled. The air reeked of permanent marker.

There was a moment of shocked quiet. Then, the man—if he could still be called that—rose to his feet. He was taller than before, towering a good three feet above Troy. What had once been flesh was now dark ink, dripping down the length of a humanoid figure. Shadows rolled off it's shoulders like smoke, obscuring it's features. Not that there was much to obscure in the first place; through the gaps of lightly shaded black pencil Troy couldn't see eyes or a nose or a mouth, just a blank void.

"Oh my #!$," Tammy muttered beside him, echoing Troy's thoughts exactly. They needed to get out of here, _now._

Troy grasped her hand, yanking them away from the figure. The crowd was in a panic, pushing and jostling but moving as one towards the mall's doors.

_Stop._

The word was odd, shimmering and italicized, burrowing through Troy's mind like it was his own thought. But, considering the confused faces of the people around him and Tammy's startled expression, the others had heard it too.

It distracted the crowd long enough for more shadow-ink beings to rise, corralling them in on all sides. He and Tammy were packed close enough together that their arms overlapped, bleeding into each other and causing him to briefly lose feeling in his hand.

_There is no need to run. Surrender, and you have nothing to fear._

Straining to look over the crowd, Troy saw a figure step forward. A girl, with golden hair that draped her shoulders in large curls. She wore a light blue dress patterned with silver flowers—a stark contrast to her companions—and a lacy mask that outlined her eyes and nose. Her mouth didn't move, but as the strange voice invaded his head again, Troy could sense that she was the source.

"What is Flower Power doing with this lot?" he whispered to Tammy. Flower Power was fairly new to the superhero scene; no one even knew what her full powers were yet. Still, she'd been marketed as a good guy, and the monsters beside her were decidedly anything but.

"Look at her pin," Tammy replied, darkly.

At second glance—and a close up shot in the next panel— he could see it: a golden star glinting just below her collarbone. The mark of the Ten Stars.

There had been rumors that the Ten Stars, one of the most notorious and mysterious crime organizations, had been lurking in the streets of Illéa City for years. Coordinating bank attacks, infiltrating the police force, pulling people off the street for recruitment (or worse). But there had never been any proof, no sign that the crimes committed were from anyone other than Illéa's usual villainous crop. Not until today.

For the first time in a while, nervousness for the safety of him and his family seized Troy, coloring his world in a sickly yellow. His father could handle himself: no other mayor had even come close to serving as many terms as Mayor Treeve. The job took wit and mettle (the undeniably good looks didn't hurt, either), and Troy hadn't just gotten those traits from nowhere. But if the Ten Stars were involved, then his father could be in over his head.

"He might not have even been at City Hall," Tammy said, squeezing his hand in comfort. Sometimes it felt like she could see right into his thought bubbles and read his mind.

Before he could reply, someone spoke up. The crowd was too thick for him to pick out an individual. "Flower Power? What's going on? Are these..._abominations _your doing?"

_These shrouds are not from me, but they are mine to command. Stand down and they will cause you no harm._

There was an uneasy rustling, and Flower Power smiled as though the offer was something they should thank her for. There was something off about it, something a little sad, but it made Troy all that much angrier. The city had gone through decades of turmoil, faced villain after villain, and it always pulled through. They couldn't stand down now!

"Heck no!" he called, gaining the attention of those around him. "We aren't letting you or your Slime Shady henchman take this city!"

Flower Power's gaze turned towards him, and he swallowed. Maybe he could have handled that better. But then people started to nod, and soon there were all kinds of shouts and yells directed towards the hero-turned-villain.

"Go away!"

"The heroes will take you down!"

"We surrender to no one!"

She closed her eyes, sighed. _Very well. Under direction of the Hood, we will take this city by force._

Flower Power took a step back while the shrouds moved forward with surprisingly light steps, as though made of air. One lunged and grabbed a woman, holding her tight and only letting go once she had been turned into a shroud herself. Screams clogged the air, the unity of the crowd quickly crumbling as the shrouds surged in on them.

It all blurred around Troy as he watched Flower Power, who was running her hands quickly through the air, tracing invisible symbols. Graceful motion lines arced all around her, surrounding her in a halo of blue pen. The citizens closest to her froze. Their eyes glazed over, drained of all color, and when she moved her hands again they followed the motions like puppets on a string, tackling and restraining their friends and family.

"Troy!"

With a start, he realized both his hand and the space beside him was empty. Troy glanced around frantically but couldn't see any sign of Tammy in the chaos. Her cry was rapidly growing faint—text becoming smaller—and he dodged and weaved, trying to find any sign of her before it faded completely.

"Tammy? Tam—_oof_!"

He fell to the ground, given almost no time to recover before he was forced to roll to the side to keep from being trampled. Thankfully, the stampede dispersed quickly, the area around him clearing.

Not-so-thankfully, a shroud loomed over him, blocking his view of the sky and dripping ink onto his face. Troy wiped the droplets away in disgust, scowling even as the shroud bent closer. He'd had experience with kidnapping before—perks of being the mayor's son—but being turned into a mindless shadow monster would be a new one for him.

A stench like hot tar cloyed his senses, the shroud only a couple panels away from consuming him, and Troy thought about how much he was going to miss having a face.

Suddenly, "Look! It's the King!"

A beam of bright light struck the side of the shroud's head, causing it to reel back with a hiss. Another hit it on the shoulder, leaving a smoldering hole in its wake. Troy glimpsed the flash of a golden cape.

"Lighten up, my friend!"

With a sizzling _crack_, like water on fire, a beam sliced into the center of the shroud's chest. The shroud gave an enraged shriek at it's attacker, but it was cut short by a painful flash of light. Troy hurried to cover his eyes with his arm, familiar enough with this attack to know he didn't want to be blinded for the next few hours.

When he pulled his arm away, the shroud still towered over him, but it was rigid and still, like a statue. Smoke no longer billowed off it's shoulders and back, revealing shiny, obsidian-like skin.

"That should hold for now, until we know what to do with it. Are you alright, my boy?"

Troy was helped to his feet by none other than the Merry King, one of Illéa City's strongest and most beloved defenders. He also happened to be the hero who rescued Troy the most often, for whatever reason. His red and gold suit, crown-adorned graying hair, and cheerful smile were iconic, known all across the country. Still, Troy felt like there was something more to the familiarity of the Merry King, something personal that he could never quite place.

"I'm good. Thanks."

The King nodded, clasping a firm hand on Troy's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "That's good to hear. Now, go take cover until I can finish up here and escort you somewhere safe."

_Why just me? What about everyone else? _Troy thought, but he raced towards an overturned truck anyway, away from the action but close enough that he could see what was happening.

He'd been rescued enough times—maybe he'd become a favorite of the Merry King's, like a frequent customer or something. That could work in his favor. The hero would know better than anyone if Troy's family was safe. Could help him find Tammy, as well, once he found out what had happened to her.

"Good to see you, Flower, but don't you think it's time to stop playing as one of Hood's toys?"

The King's voice was amused, like he was scolding a child who'd accidentally tangled gum in her hair, not someone aiding in a hostile takeover. Flower Power flinched, and although Troy heard nothing, the King tilted his head, as though considering something. There was a long moment of silence, the parking lot completely devoid of citizens save for Roy, whose heart was beating so loudly that little _thump thump thumps _hovered around his chest.

They stared at each other, locked in a silent showdown. Then the Merry King raced forward, blasting a beam of light at the nearest shroud so powerful that it flew back into one of its siblings, knocking them both to the ground.

More shrouds attacked, the shadow rolling off them in waves so thick that dark smog filled the air. The only sign of the King was the frequent flashing of light, yellow and white streaking through the cloud like lightning. Troy lost sight of Flower Power completely.

Hissing, screeching. A triumphant shout from the hero. The occasional _zap _and _zing _rising above the chaos in colorful lettering before they disappeared in a shower of sparks that made Troy's eyes sting.

He shuffled, knees aching in his crouched position. Not that he was unthankful, but the rescue usually went faster than this.

As if sensing his impatience, a muted glow pulsed in the center of the cloud, growing in size and intensity until it became a supernova that flared over half the parking lot. Troy ducked just before it could wash over him, but he could still feel a burst of heat against his neck, leaving his skin warm and the air smelling of lemon-scented marker.

The smoke settled. Like before, shrouds stood frozen in place. The Merry King sat in the center of them, bowed on one knee with a fist pressed to the ground, head bent.

Danger incapacitated—or missing, in Flower Power's case—Troy eased out from behind the truck and said with forced bravado, "You _have _to accept the key to the city now."

The King's head moved towards the sound. His bent knee tensed, like he was about to stand, but then he swayed. Shaking lines snaked along his outline, displaying just how unsteady he was, before his feet gave out.

Instinctively, Troy leapt forward, catching the superhero before he could collapse completely. He draped an arm over his shoulders, brushing the cape back so it didn't tangle with his legs. Troy grunted under the weight, regret at his neglected trips to the gym mingling with concern for his rescuer.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"There," the King gasped out, gesturing to an alleyway that flanked the back of the mall. Up close, Troy could see the sweat dripping down the sides of his face, leaving glistening trails behind.

"Shouldn't I call an ambulance? Or do you have a super healing squad for this kind of thing?"

"Now, Troy!" The King barked, voice strained but no less intimidating. "I have some things to tell you, and we don't have much time."

That's when Troy saw the sticky black shadow clinging to the King's feet. It moved slower than it had on the other hosts, but even as he watched it began to sluggishly climb its way to the King's ankles. Bile rose in Troy's throat, and he gently nudged the King towards the alleyway.

The minute they reached it, the hero sighed and slumped down against the wall. Troy hovered, uncertain as the King reached up and felt along the edges of his mask.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

"Help me take this off."

"What?" In a world of powers and magic and a lot of things that shouldn't make sense, there was one rule that everyone followed, and that was _never _remove a hero's mask. Troy reached out, as if to stop the King, but then he thought better of it.

"You're sure?" Troy said, internally begging the hero to change his mind. If things were dire enough that they'd reached "revealed identity" status, there was a talk on power and responsibility headed his way and with his family and friend in trouble, Troy wasn't sure he had the time for that. Not to mention the shadow, which had now reached the King's knees.

"Please, son," the Merry King said. It was the way his words appeared as a shaky, spidery scrawl that pushed Troy to lean forward and gently peel away the golden mask.

Revealing the face of his father beneath.

**/Chapter 2/**

In hindsight, it made sense. Why the Merry King felt familiar, how he and the mayor had never been seen in the same place at the same time, his invested interest in Troy. They had the same build, the same eyes, the same _voice. _His father was a superhero. A superhero who had changed Troy's diapers.

A superhero who was currently being eaten by a shroud.

The freak-out building up in Troy's chest would have to wait; they had bigger problems. Big, shadowy, his-father-was-being-_possessed _problems.

"Listen, Troy," Mayor Treeve said. "This is not the way I wanted you to find out, but it seems I don't have much of a choice. The Hood...he has your mother and sister."

Troy's heart seemed to stop completely, holding its breath even as he forced air into his lungs.

"Okay," he said, voice trembling. "We have to get this stuff off you, right? So you can go save them." He glanced around, looking for something he could use to fight back the shadow, which was now up to his father's waist. "Can't you burn it? Or...or pry it off? Something!"

"I can only solidify it, ensure that I don't turn into one of them. But"—a hand reached out, firmly-yet-gently redirecting Troy's face so that they made eye contact— "I made a mistake. All of us did, in underestimating the Hood. The city's superhero force is gone, either defeated or converted into shrouds. Tomilda—sorry, you know her as Report—Iceberg, Storyteller...they're all gone."

"No," Troy said, shaking his head. He recognized the look in his father's eyes, a mixture of pride and sadness that suggested he was about to be asked to do something he didn't want to do. "No way."

"You're our only hope, son."

"What do you mean, 'only hope'? I-I don't have powers, Dad! What am I supposed to do, pose and smile and wave until the Hood surrenders? I mean, I have charm to spare, but I don't think that'll be enough to stop a total conquest of the city!"

"You have more power than you know, Troy. It's in you," the hero said, moving his hand to tap against Troy's chest, directly over his heart, before quickly withdrawing as the shadow maneuvered its way down towards his elbows. "You just have to be brave enough to use it."

"Wait! Dad! No. Don't leave me—"

"The city relies on you. Be brave, son. I know you can do this." The fading hero gave one final smile, sunny and cheerful, growing in luminescence until little white dots completely overran Troy's sight. When his vision cleared, he found that same smile frozen on his father's stiff form.

Both the shadow, and the Merry King's chest, were still.

Troy sat motionless, trying to process everything that had happened in the past few minutes, the loss of his father pressing in all around him like a shroud.

Screams sounded in the distance, startling him. He sniffed once and wiped his face on his sleeve. There weren't enough pages in the issue for him to sit and grieve. The heroes were either gone or traitors, civilians were sheltering in fear, and the Ten Stars had control of the city. If Troy wanted to rescue his family, find Tammy, and revive his father, then it was entirely up to him.

"I'm coming, Hood," he growled to the sky, where the smoke thickened. He let anger filter his surroundings in a sharp red because it was better than giving in to the heavy black of fear. He stood straight, fists and jaw clenched. "And you're going to regret ever setting foot in this city."

"Y'know you're gonna die, right?"

Troy whirled around, surprise reverting the colors to normal and causing him to break his pose. The silhouette of a girl loomed in the entrance of the alleyway, arms crossed with a shoulder leaned casually against the wall. The lighting shifted, revealing dark hair that spiraled outwards from her face like a cloud and the three scars penciled over her right eye.

"What?"

"Don't get me wrong, your desire to avenge is touching and darn justified." She gestured towards the King: petrified, shadowed, and still missing a mask. Troy cursed and made to step in front of his father, if it was too late. The girl laughed, barking and loud with an undercurrent of energy that sent vibrations through Troy's body. "No need to get your ponytail in a twist; I'm not gonna tell anyone. Besides, you have other problems right now, like how you're going to die if you confront the Hood like this. Stereotypical catchphrases, no powers, not even a cool mask! You're just begging to be squashed."

He huffed, crossing his arms and staring her down with narrowed eyes. "Well, what _else_ am I supposed to do?"

"Asking me for help wouldn't be a bad place to start."

Troy didn't sputter (despite the scribbled appearance of his words which suggested otherwise) when he threw his arms out and exclaimed, "I don't even know who you are!"

The girl came forward, towering height becoming more apparent as she drew close. Her hand shot forward, so quick that a blur lingered behind it. "Name's Taeve, but autocorrect keeps wanting to change it to Steve, so I'll reply to either." Troy blinked, wanting to ask what the heck an "autocorrect" was—a hero? Villain? Device, maybe? —but Taeve continued, forcing a handshake when he didn't take her offered hand. "Now that we're nice and acquainted, all you have to do is ask. Or is the mayor's son too hoity-toity for that?"

Troy hesitated, glancing around her frame to see if there was anyone else to help besides this disturbingly excited stranger—well, acquaintance, now—but there was no one.

"Come on, just say it," Taeve prompted with a wink. "It might just save your life."

"Um," Troy began, but then he sighed. As incredible as he was, even he couldn't do this alone. "Help?"

"Excellent!" Taeve said. She slung an arm easily around his shoulder, guiding him towards the mall with such gusto that he almost tripped in an effort to keep up.

"In case you forgot, my dad's a hero and I have your face memorized, so you better not be leading me into a trap."

Taeve just laughed, sending another round of vibrations through Troy.

Inside, the mall's lights were still on, but it appeared deserted, shopping bags and paper cups discarded everywhere, windows to the various shops covered or blacked out. Eventually he was guided to what appeared to be a candy shop, judging by the dancing candies painted in the display window and a narration box in the upper corner that read **Steve's Sweet Shop**.

"Hurry those short legs of yours," Taeve urged, shutting and locking the door behind them.

"I only seem short because you're insanely tall," Troy said distractedly, taking in his surroundings. The shop was a culprit of false advertising: there were no candies or sweets, just shelves that housed empty glass jars and a simple counter with a cash register

"Sit," Taeve commanded, and she ducked behind the counter. A chair appeared in the corner, as if just remembering it was supposed to be there, and Troy hesitantly sat down. One leg had been drawn shorter than the others, and while it leaned slightly, it held his weight.

A series of _bumps _rose from behind the desk, followed by Taeve's "gosh darnit!" When she reemerged, her hair was somehow even more frazzled than before.

She hefted a large black case into his lap, beaming with pride.

"Can I ask _why _this is in a candy shop?"

"Nope. Gotta protect the ancient family secret. Now, this is a precious relic acquired by my ole granddad years ago. He agreed to be its guardian, and it's been passed through the family ever since, collecting dust in this shop and awaiting the day that it'll be needed." She paused, then laughed. "Oops, guess I did answer your question! Do me a favor and don't tell anyone."

Taeve blew some dust off the case, filling the air with the smell of pencil shavings. Then, she clicked it open.

A bright light—one that could rival the Merry King's—spilled from the case, overflowing to the borders of the panel. Troy felt a power surge over him, and for the first time he didn't question his decision to follow a random stranger into an empty store. If this relic was powerful enough to make him feel like he was even more amazing than he already was, then surely it was powerful enough to stand against the Hood!

As the light faded, he glanced down eagerly.

There, nearly engulfed by the velvet lining of the case, was a single red-and-white striped candy cane.

"I think I'm missing something, here," Troy said. "What is this supposed to do? Give the Hood a cavity?"

"You mock it now, but that's because you haven't seen it's true power."

"Which is…?" Troy gingerly picked it up, holding it to the light to study closely. Some of the stripes didn't quite stop at the edges, leaving red lines sticking awkwardly from the sides, but it seemed authentic enough.

"Dunno. Legend says the Candy Cane of Crowns only responds to those who are worthy. Thousands have asked for its help, but it hasn't awoken. Not"—she paused, leaning forward with a large grin and conspiratorial whisper— "until today."

Some part of Troy wanted to acknowledge how ridiculous this was, but he had once been held hostage on Angeles Tower by a man in a donkey onesie, so this was about par for the course. "How do you know this is going to work?"

Taeve snorted. "Boy, you're the son of Illéa City's mayor-slash-most-famous-hero, your lady friend is missing, and you need to rescue your family. You were literally called this city's 'last hope.' If that doesn't indicate an origin story, I don't know _what_ does."

Troy opened his mouth to refute, then closed it. It's not like she was wrong. "So, how do I do this?"

"Lick it."

He fumbled with the candy cane, barely catching it before it could hit the ground. He quickly deposited it back in the case. "You mean," he said, voice strangled, "that this thing has been licked by _thousands_ of people?"

Taeve tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Closer to hundreds of thousands—it was especially popular in medieval times—but yes."

"I-I _touched _it. And now you're asking me to _lick _it."

She scoffed. "Look, you want to stand a chance against the Hood, this is the way you do it. Now pucker up and give that candy cane some sugar."

It took all of Troy's physical and mental strength to grasp the candy cane again and raise it (along with centuries' worth of spit) slowly towards his mouth. Then, before he could think about it any longer, he pressed it to the tip of his tongue.

A minty taste tingled along his taste buds, growing stronger until it felt like his entire mouth, and then inner organs, were burning. The candy cane grew in his hand, larger and larger until it was the size of an actual walking cane. Red and white sparkles danced around him, showering him in glitter—actual glitter—that shimmered along his arms, his clothes, his face. He could feel that he was changing, but he was too busy coughing up the glitter that had found its way into his lungs to watch.

When the cloud dispersed, Taeve whistled, low and long. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

She reached behind the counter (just how much storage space was behind there?) and handed Troy a mirror.

His jacket and jeans were gone, traded out for a white suit with red pinstripes and a red waistcoat. He wore shiny black loafers that complemented his black tie. A red fedora perched on his head, nearly covering the entirety of his hair, which was now cut short. And, to complement the ensemble, was a comfortable black eye mask.

"Well?" Taeve urged. "How do ya feel?"

"I'm magnificent," Troy announced, and for the first time, he truly believed it. Gone was the mayor's son, the gentleman in distress; he was a hero, now. He could actually fight back. He could…

What _could_ he do?

He lifted the candy cane. Disregarding its size, it didn't appear any different than before, but instinct told him to tap it against the floor twice. As he did, the tip sharpened and flattened, melting and reshaping until Troy found himself holding a sword. Twirling it around, he took a few practice jabs at the air. The sword moved smoothly, naturally, as though it was an extension of his arm. He swung the blade towards Taeve, who had to duck as a _swish _flew over her head.

"Hey! Careful where you're swinging that thing, or your onomatopoeia will crash into the next store over!"

It was Troy's turn to laugh, his smile growing as he carefully ran a finger along the red and white blade.

"Let's do this," he said, confidence surging through even the pinstripes of his suit.

They had a fighting chance, now. All that was left to do was trek to City Hall, rescue his family, and defeat a supervillain.

Easy.

**/Chapter 3/**

City Hall looked rather worse for wear. Troy examined the establishing shot for a few seconds, taking in the nearly collapsed roof, the completely demolished left wing, and the rubble strewn across the spacious front lawn. City Hall had always been one of the more elegant features of the city—smooth and polished despite the frequent attacks against it, almost palace-like in appearance—but now there was a pallor over it, as though it had been drained of life.

Now that he was closer, crouched behind a tree just across the street, Troy realized that what he'd thought was a cloud of smoke was not smoke at all but instead a pulsing, twisting shadow that spiraled angrily above the city's capital.

Taeve, decked in a flattering black jumpsuit with a silver belt and mask, followed his line of sight and gave a nervous chuckle. "Alright, King Kandy, you're the boss here. What's the plan?"

Troy frowned, making a mental note to come up with a cooler alias when things weren't so dire.

"Looks like our resident hoodlum has been busy," he said, gesturing to the dozens of shrouds patrolling the grounds. Though they couldn't see her, Flower Power had to be close by. The Hood, undoubtedly, would be inside. "We need to distract them so we can get through."

"Sure thing," Taeve said, rising to stand. She laced her fingers together, stretched her arms out in front of her, and moved her head from side to side, causing her neck to make a soft cracking sound.

"What are you doing?" Troy hissed, grabbing her wrist.

"You want a distraction? I can give ya one. They won't call me 'Lady Loud' for nothing!"

"That's a lot of shrouds, Taeve," Troy said, watching as one of them reached up and grabbed a bird from mid-air, consuming it before it could even squawk. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Don't you worry your heroic little self," she said with a smug grin. "There's candy in my pockets and tricks up my sleeve."

Troy swallowed and gave a grateful nod. Despite meeting under unusual circumstances, he couldn't have asked for a better ally. "Be careful."

"Aye aye, Captain," she said with a salute, and _there _was a title he could work with. "Go kick some shadow butt."

She stepped out of the cover of the tree and strode across the lawn, hands in her pockets, whistling so that a string of music notes bobbed happily behind her. Then, once she was a good distance from Troy's position, she cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, "Hey! Creatures from the Black Lagoon! Not only do you smell, but you're useless too!"

Every single shroud swiveled its head towards her. A couple of them hissed, as though questioning this human that'd just insulted them.

"I mean, the only reason you're even here is to give me a cool action montage. You got the numbers, but you sure don't got the brains!"

That spurred them into action. Troy watched in horror as they moved as one, shadowy smoke flaring, and converged on the girl. Taeve stood her ground, even going as far as to mimic glancing at a watch while she yawned. Troy reached for the candy cane on his hip.

Just when the first ones were mere inches from her, Taeve screamed.

A sonic wave erupted from her mouth, creating a ripple of thick black lines that shoved the shrouds outward. Some slammed heavily into the shrouds behind them, while others were sent flying into the air like a paper kite in a hurricane. Troy wouldn't be surprised if a few had been catapulted back to the first page.

Confident that his companion could hold her own, Troy darted across the lawn and towards City Hall. His sprint went undisturbed, save for the sound of Taeve's laughter as she released blast after blast in the background. He dodged the pools of red crayon scribbled on the front steps, hoping it was some red punch spilled by a clumsy intern and not something more sinister.

The front doors were, surprisingly, closed. He yanked on the handle, but they remained firmly shut.

"Nice try, Hood," he muttered, "but a locked door is no match for me or my dramatic entrance." He raised his sword and swung it horizontally through the air, slinging a sound effect with spiked edges straight into the door's surface.

_Bam! Pow! Crack! _The doors rattled, and on the third swing, they flew open. Troy raced inside, sword held aloft.

At first glance, the lobby appeared completely abandoned, everything except himself colored in black and white. Shadow swam across the walls, gathered in the cracks of the floorboards. Troy tentatively brushed a hand against the wall. His skin came away with a shiny gray gloss, like graphite, but there didn't seem to be any other effects.

"I know you're in here, Hood," Troy said. Poor lighting filtered through the cracks in the ceiling above. There were plenty of dark corners for the villain to hide in, and he found himself missing his father's light. "That's what you call yourself, right? The Hood? Is it because you're so ugly that you have to cover your face?"

A dark, booming laugh rattled through the building. Dust trickled down from the rafters. "Bold words, little hero. Very well, I'll play along."

The shadows withdrew from the walls, slinking across the floor like tiny black rats before they converged in the middle of the room. They pooled together and an inky form spun upwards, like a whirlpool set in reverse.

It settled and a hooded figure stood, so menacing that he filled an entire splash page.

The Hood wasn't just a hood, but an entire cloak, the material dark and ancient as though it had been torn from the deepest corner of space, where not even light could reach. It moved on its own, rippling outwards in a languid manner, revealing a pair of black pants and heavy boots. The hood was pulled forward far enough that only a long, hooked nose and thin mouth were visible. And there, where the hood covered the eyes, was a golden star, dousing any doubt that this was indeed the Hood, leader of the Ten Stars.

"Tell me," he said, voice so deep that it bordered on a purr. "What is it that brought you here? I do hope it's because you've realized the foolishness of heroes and have come to embrace a superior cause." He paced around Troy, hood shifting slightly to reveal a set of silver eyes. "But I have a feeling you'll disappoint."

"I'm doing what any worthy hero would do," Troy said, the sword in his grip fueling him with assurance. "I'm protecting my city. My people."

"And you think you can do that with a toothpick. Does that make you cute, or a nuisance? No matter, it promises to be interesting. I've always loved a good show."

"Then how about I give you one," Troy said, and with that, he lunged towards the supervillain.

The cloak flared, easily blocking the sword. Troy came for a second swing, but the Hood spun to the side, just out of reach.

He clicked his tongue. "Somebody's eager, and, it appears, naive. Taking a leading role when you don't even know all the players on stage."

The Hood reached out a robed arm towards the corner of the room and drew the darkness towards him. Color flooded back into the scene. It was though a spotlight had been shone, and there, in the middle of it, was Troy's mother and little sister. Their hands and legs were bound, mouths gagged, but they were seemingly unharmed. A handful of civilians surrounded them, all tied in a similar manner, including—

"Tammy," he muttered, forgetting for a moment that he was a name-pending superhero and not Troy Treeve.

"Oh," the Hood said, mouth curling into a grin, "I see I have something you want. Skye Scraper, keep an eye on our prizes for me."

A villain Troy hadn't noticed before pranced into the light, feet hovering a foot off the ground, wearing a light blue suit with a mask that resembled ski goggles. She flicked her blond hair—pulled tight into a ponytail—and placed one hand on his mother's shoulder, her other on one of the civilian's. Smugness radiated from her tone as she said, "It would be my pleasure."

"Now," the Hood said, "we can begin."

A pale, bony hand lashed out and sent a disk of shadow in Troy's direction. Guided through his connection with the candy cane, Troy stepped to the side, slashing the sword upward and cleaving the disk in two. Another was sent his way, and while he managed to duck beneath it, he stepped directly into the path of the Hood's third disk.

Pain zapped along his back and shoulder as he slammed into the wall. Crudely drawn stars revolved around his head, and he frantically worked to wave them away. His vision cleared just in time for him to see another disk flying for his head. Airbrushed along his neck as he dove sideways.

The disk bounced off the wall and shattered against the ceiling, creating a series of cracks that spiderwebbed outward.

A muffled shout came from the other end of the room. Troy glanced over, briefly making eye contact with his little sister, who watched the action with wide eyes.

_The civilians. They are your first priority. _

The thought bubbled in the air as though it was his own, a whisper in the back of his mind. It was similar to Flower Power's form of communication, but it couldn't be her. She was working for the Hood.

If he wasn't too busy dodging the Hood's cloak, which was trying to tangle around his legs, Troy would have glanced down at his sword. Was the candy cane _sentient_? That seemed like something Taeve would have mentioned, but even she hadn't seemed sure of all its secrets.

Troy ripped his leg from the cloak's hold and shook his head. Regardless of where the voice came from, it was right. The civilians were top priority.

He raced towards a desk. The Hood cackled as he ran, making a comment about cowardice, but Troy's lungs burned too much to quip back. Apparently not even a magical confection could overcome poor stamina.

He took a moment to shelter, placing all his focus on the sword and willing it to power up. When it began to hum, practically shaking in his hands, he popped up over the desk and flung a sound effect towards the Hood, then another one towards Skye Scraper.

_Poof! _The word exploded around the Hood, surrounding him in a heavy gray fog.

_Zap! _Skye Scraper cried out as electricity arched along her body. She fell to the ground, unmoving except for her hair which stood on end, tiny bouts of electricity still darting between the strands.

Troy hurried to the civilians and used his sword to slice through their bonds.

"Thank you," his mother said, rubbing at her wrists.

"Get everyone out of here. I'll hold him off," he told her, thinking how weird it was to be giving the commands to her for once. She gave a resolute nod and turned to wave people towards the exit, her commanding presence immediately capturing their attention.

His sister sprung to her feet the minute she was freed. She flashed him a toothy grin, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she said, "That was super awesome! I want a sword too!"

Troy puffed his chest out, trying not to preen because, yeah, that _was_ pretty awesome. If he survived this, he'd probably be the coolest superhero to walk the earth. Instead, he tipped his fedora at her and said, "If you can help your mother get the others out, I'll let you take a practice swing."

She gave a little salute (_so cute_—the Treeve genes really were blessed) and darted away to safety.

He bent down to free the final person—Tammy, who was giving him an odd look, eyes alert and thoughtful—when the mist around the Hood started to fade. Troy sent another _poof _in his direction, but not before the Hood launched a glob of shadow towards one of the retreating civilians. The man fell, yelp cut short as he transformed into a shroud.

It stood between them and the exit, larger than any shroud he'd seen before. Troy must have really pissed the Hood off.

"Stay behind me," he told Tammy. She narrowed her eyes at him, concern evident on her face, but nodded and took a couple steps back.

Troy inhaled deeply, trying not to think of the last time he had unsuccessfully faced down a shroud. The last thing he needed was to trigger a flash-back sequence.

"You've got this," Tammy whispered from behind. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as she was him, but it still gave him a nudge of confidence.

The shroud approached, and as it did, energy buzzed up Troy's arms, as though the sword was manifesting its excitement. The shroud lashed out an arm, and Troy blocked it with the flat side of his sword, hesitant to actually slice the creature lest he hurt the civilian inside.

Dark energy flared outwards as the two made contact. Then, to Troy's surprise, the shroud started to melt _into _the sword.

The shroud made a startled noise, wrenching its arm back, but it was too late. The sword drank up the shadow greedily, black twisting alongside the candy cane stripes until it disappeared into the hilt. Troy tried to pull it away, but it remained locked stubbornly to the surface of the shroud, consuming more and more until the creature was gone completely. A man collapsed to the ground, groaning.

"Okay," Troy said, blinking at the sword. A large grin broke across his face. "Sweet!"

"You actually _do _have this."

He glanced at Tammy, and she gave a relieved, breathless laugh that echoed his own. Her gaze moved to somewhere behind him. Her eyes widened.

"Look out!"

Troy was shoved to the ground, sword nearly sent spinning out of his grip. Through the confusion, he managed to twist onto his back, just in time to watch his friend tackle Skye Scraper. They never hit the ground. With a frustrated shout, Skye Scraper flew upward, rocketing both of them towards the ceiling. Fast. Much too fast. They impacted directly with the portion that the Hood's disk had cracked.

Both Skye Scraper and Tammy plummeted downward, along with half of the ceiling.

There was a _crash_, so loud it temporarily obscured Troy's vision. The ground shook. Dust and debris rose into the air, thick enough that he barely saw his own scream of "No!"

The Hood must have heard it, however, because he emerged from the dust with barely a noise. Weak from shock, the sword was easily knocked from Troy's hand and sent spiraling across the floor. It smacked against a column, reverting to a regular candy cane.

The pinstripe suit, fedora, and mask all disappeared. Troy could feel his hair—long once more—sticking to the back of his neck. Fear flooded him, turning his already-dim surroundings even darker.

The Hood leered.

"My my, isn't this interesting? The mayor's boy!" He loomed over Troy's prone form, and from this angle Troy could see his face clearly. His silver eyes were glowing, mocking. Shadow spilled out of the cloak, little wisps spilling down to brush at Troy's skin and clothes, staining them with charcoal marks. "I told you I liked a good show, and while that was certainly a..._crashing _display, it's my turn. I don't like to be overshadowed, you see."

He placed a boot on Troy's chest, pressing down so that he gasped, causing him to lose what little air he'd had before.

"You put up a good fight, but I have to ask: how did you think this was going to end? Did you truly think that _you, _an ignorant, wannabe hero, could really step up where so many had failed?"

Troy choked for air, but it was lost in his throat. And no matter how much he mentally spat and cursed, his thought bubble remained visible only to him.

"I am the Hood," the villain said, followed by a cold laugh, "the brightest of the Ten Stars! Nothing can stop my reign over this city! But because I'm feeling so generous, I'll give you a choice. Pledge your allegiance to me. You'll have power, will be a part of this city's new, better order—it appears I have an opening." He gave a bored glance at the pile of rubble. "If you don't, well...you'll be joining me one way or another."

The pressure on his chest eased slightly, and Troy gasped. He thought of his father, frozen and alone in the alleyway. _You have more power than you know, you just have to be brave enough to use it, _floating gently in the air above him. Although the shadows still hung around Troy in a threatening veil, he wheezed, "Never."

The Hood frowned. "You hero types are so boring. I was hoping to flip the script a bit, add some more pizzazz, but so be it." He gestured to someone with his hand. "Flower Power, come."

Flowery dress, blonde curls. Flower Power stepped next to the Hood's side with an unreadable expression, her voice silent in Troy's head.

"It would be a waste to turn the city's prince into a mindless shroud when we could use him to our advantage, don't you think? Let's put those persuasive skills of yours to work."

Troy flashed back to the parking lot and how easily Flower Power had turned people against those they loved. He closed his eyes, desperate to block her the best he could, but without his cane—without any powers—what could he do?

He felt Flower Power's presence evade his mind. Time seemed to still, surroundings growing fuzzy.

Was this the end? Was he destined to fall like the heroes before him? Like his father, who'd held so much faith in him?

Then, softly, _I can only hold him for a few seconds. Make it count._

She moved her hands, tracing symbols in the air with ease and grace. Troy's mind cleared, just as the Hood fell forward, clutching at his head with wide eyes.

"What? What are you doing?"

Troy darted, sliding towards the candy cane so quickly that air swooshed around him in thin white lines. He grabbed it and power instantly surged through him. Glitter swirled through the room, plastering red and white sparkles against the walls and floor, spilling over into the gutters on the page. His pinstripe suit, fedora, and mask returned (and, best of all, his sword).

"How _dare _you!" the Hood screamed, unhinged. He stamped his foot, a shadowy overlord reduced to a whining toddler at the thought of someone undermining him.

Any fear Troy had melted away. Spinning his sword in a lazy circle, he said, "Hey, you're the one who wanted the script flipped. I'm not sure why you're complaining so much."

With a snarl, the Hood lunged at Flower Power, who stumbled backward, black wrapping its way around her chest. "I'll deal with you later," he hissed. Then he advanced towards Troy, a black staff of solid shadow forming in his hand. Gone was the mystery and finesse, replaced with pure, seething anger so potent that a vein actually manifested on his forehead.

Staff and sword collided, flashes of black and red and white painting the room as they fought. Forward, back, parry, strike. It was like a dance, a combination of quick footwork and sharp movements that only energized Troy, instead of exhausting him.

It was exhilarating. The sword purred in agreement.

Sweat beaded on Troy's forehead, but as the duel proceeded, panel after panel, the Hood grew sloppier: stumbling over his feet, arms shaking, barely raising his staff in time to block. It was quickly becoming apparent that his power came from smoke and mirrors, shadows and mystery. Not physical, personal combat.

Troy took advantage, increasing the frequency and fury of his strikes to force the Hood backwards.

"I might be new at this. And, sure, I'm probably naive next to you with your experience and big fancy crime syndicate," he said. He slashed the Hood's arm, tearing through cloth and drawing a thin line of red. "But there's something you forgot."

The Hood's back bumped against the wall. Cornered, nowhere to go.

"And what's that, little hero?" he snarled, silver eyes wild and tainted with red.

Without hesitation, Troy thrust the sword forward and directly through the Hood's torso.

"You're in _my _origin story."

There was a gasp as the Hood's body caved inwards, dissolving into the blade. Wind swirled all around Troy, whipping at his clothes and stinging his eyes. The Hood gave a furious scream as he realized what was happening, reaching out to claw at Troy, but it was too late. With a final _pop, _he was absorbed into the sword completely. Not even a shred of cloak remained.

Silence. Troy stood firm, sword held aloft, suffused in an angelic glow as light flooded in from the hole in the roof.

The Hood was defeated, never to terrorize Illéa City ever again.

Troy was victorious.

**/Epilogue/**

Troy wasn't sure how long he stood there, taking it in, trying not to collapse. For one panel, maybe two. But then a cough drifted out from behind the rubble, unsteady and faint, but there.

He spared a glance at Flower Power—now shadow-free—uncertain of what to do next. Arresting her didn't seem right, not when she had helped him in the end. She met his eyes and gave an understanding nod. _Do what you need to. I won't go anywhere._

And he believed her.

He approached the ceiling wreckage, where the rubble seemed to shift and clear (though he nearly tripped over all the eraser marks), creating a path. It wasn't long before it led him to a familiar figure, stirring on the ground, miraculously alive despite the fall. With everything that had happened that day, he wasn't going to question it.

"Tammy!" He knelt next to her. Her entire body was littered with scrapes and cuts, but at least she was breathing. She startled as he approached.

"How are you feeling?"

"Dusty," she said, voice looking and sounding a little rough. She winced. "And a little crushed."

Troy followed her gaze to where her arm was pinned beneath a rather large rock.

"$&!" he cursed. Wedging his candy cane sword beneath the boulder as leverage, he pushed down, but it hardly budged. The rock was colored with heavy gray paint instead of colored pencil or marker, and it would take some force to get it to move.

"It's okay," Tammy said, touching his arm lightly with her free hand. "Could be worse—at least I'm not Skye Scraper." She laughed, though there was a hint of hysteria behind it, from pain or relief or maybe both.

He gave a half-hearted laugh in return, and her smile slowly faded. She examined his face with sharp eyes before asking, hesitantly, "…Troy?"

"What?" Not even a day as a superhero, and already his identity was at risk. "N-no. Who is this 'Troy'? Don't know him. I'm just the city's savior."

"Yep. Definitely Troy."

His shoulders sagged. "How did you know? Wait, can you actually see my thought bubbles?"

She snorted. "No, I just know that only _you _would think dressing like a mobster candyman is cool. Plus, you knew my name."

"Fair enough, but you have to admit that what I just did was pretty awesome."

"You did just save the city, so I guess I have to give that one to you." Tammy gave a soft smile that lit his surroundings in a soft pink. Probably a reflection of Troy's relief, and nothing to do with the small _thumps _emitted from his heart. "And you saved my life. That was pretty cool."

"You tackled a supervillain. I'd say that was pretty cool, too."

She squeezed his arm. "That's a _thank you _hug. I'll give you a real one once this boulder kindly removes itself from my arm. What was a boulder even _doing _on the ceiling, anyway?"

"Do you need any help with that?"

Troy glanced up to see Gemstone, one of the city's veteran heroes. Her hair was tousled, and she was sporting a black eye, but the appearance of other heroes bade well. His father _could _be brought back.

Tammy groaned and leaned her head back, squeezing her eyes shut as though the pain was just catching up. "_Please_."

Gemstone touched the boulder and it became clear, like a diamond. Then she rapped a knuckle against it so that it shattered, freeing Tammy's arm.

"Thanks," Troy said.

"Helping civilians comes with the job," she said. "From what I understand, I'd still be a shroud without you. The city's heroes are in your debt. Speaking of, the Merry King is outside and wants to speak to you." She gestured to Tammy. "I'll get her to the hospital to have that arm looked at."

_Dad. _Troy shot to his feet and gave Tammy a questioning look. She waved him away with a sleepy smile. "Go, I'll be fine. I'm sure my friend Troy will come by to visit me later."

"He's an idiot if he doesn't," he agreed, before leaving her in the care of Gemstone.

As Troy stepped out of City Hall, he was met with the sight of heroes, civilians, and even a few minor villains wandering around—likely the shrouds that Taeve had to fight off before. Report's voice filled the streets, alerting everyone the danger had passed. Iceberg was helping a civilian stand, her bow-shaped hair immaculate as ever. Storyteller was rubbing her forehead, but she laughed at something one of the Twinces said.

And there, having a silent conversation with Flower Power at the bottom of the steps, was the Merry King.

"There's our hero!" the King said, greeting him with a warm smile. Troy moved to pull him into a hug, but the King stopped him and clasped his arm in a firm handshake. _Later, _his eyes promised. Troy's attention moved to Flower Power.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I thought you were the Hood's shadow puppeteer. Why'd you change your mind?"

_Because I was never on his side, _Flower Power replied.

"A few years ago, The Hood approached Tilly here as a civilian, wanting to recruit her powers," the Merry King said, lowering his voice. "She contacted us, and we came up with a plan to infiltrate the Ten Stars. She's been invaluable in playing double agent for us ever since."

_Not as successfully as I would have hoped, _she thought with a wry smile. _This attack was very sudden. The Hood blindsided us all, even his followers._

"But he was no match for you!" the King exclaimed. He leaned closer to Troy, whispering for only him to hear, "I'm so proud of you, son, and so is your adoring public."

He pulled back and gestured to the crowd that had gathered around them, civilians and heroes alike. Camera flashes came from the press, momentarily blinding Troy. Now that the danger had passed, they were on the story like saliva on a candy cane.

"Excuse me," one of the reporters said, holding a microphone aloft. "Are you the one who defeated the Hood?"

Troy glanced at his father, who tilted his head in a _go on _gesture.

"Yes," Troy said, flashing them a debonair smile. He'd done it before as the mayor's son, but this time it felt different. It felt earned. "I am."

"And what is the name of our city's newest hero?"

Troy looked over the crowd, taking in the beaming faces of his sister and mother. The tired-yet-relieved faces of his people. He found Taeve, sporting a large grin despite being a little bruised. Their eyes met, and she gave him an exaggerated salute.

He raised his face to the sky. It was clear, a brilliant pastel blue free of the shadowy vortex of doom. The sun shone down in all its lemon-scented glory, signaling the beginning of an era (or, at least a ten-issue run).

"You can call me Captain. Captain Candy Cane."

**Captain Candy Cane will return in Volume 1, Issue 2 of Captain Candy Cane: Curse of the Cavi-tee!**

* * *

**A/N (part 2):** No. No he won't.

Some background info that was going to be included but it was too tonally different and I was already approaching 10k so I'm dropping it here (just bear with me): while Illéa was dealing with the fallout of all that fun rebel stuff, Parker spent a lot of time in the hospital recovering from an accident. Part of his recovery involved speech therapy, which he struggled with because he couldn't express himself as quickly or easily as he wanted. One day, Harley could sense his frustration as he tried to tell her a story, so she handed him a piece of paper and told him to draw it for her instead.

And he did, taking some inspiration from current events. But just some. Troy, Tammy, Tilly, Taeve, Trollanski, and Mayor Treeve are totes his original OCs. 100%.


	7. Calm Waters (Cami)

**A/N:** *sobs* Sweet sassafras it's finally done.

Did I write a self-indulgent Roymilla AU injected with pure fluff? I absolutely did! Well, it's more like a hurt/comfort canon divergent fic but...close enough? Anyway, little plot, no direction. Just a lot of banter and unrealistic, _mostly _stress-free happiness for these two (hence the AU label, though it is canon compliant as of chapter 44 of TRatR). If cheesy Roymilla stuff isn't your thing, feel free to skip this one because there is A LOT of it.

But there's also a dog.

Just saying.

* * *

**Calm Waters**

_Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess_

_Or calm waters, if that serves you best_

_I will love you without any strings attached_

_I will love you without a single string attached_

("Two" - Sleeping at Last)

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

His reply is immediate, the certainty in it such a contrast from her own teasing tone that Camilla can't help but pause. She shouldn't be surprised—there are some days where Roy seems to trust her more than he does himself—but it still warms her, strengthens her resolve to live up to the faith he has in her.

He's still as she ties the blindfold snugly around his head, any nervousness taking the shape of a suggestive comment as she guides him into a nondescript, black car.

"We're still in public, you know," she says, voice lined with amusement. A small Tammins airport, sleepy and desolate in the early morning hours, hardly threatens exposure. Still, she needs to account for the various guards and personnel that flock about; they're never really alone.

_Not for much longer, _she reminds herself. _Almost there._

Roy huffs, causing the bottom edge of the blindfold to flutter. "Well I can't know with this on, can I? You could be leading me into some creepy underground bunker and I would be blissfully unaware."

"Yes, because I frequent those often," Camilla says, even as she grabs his hand, hoping to convey that there's good reason for her cryptic behavior. Roy frowns slightly, offering only the barest trace of a pout while in the company of their driver, but she gets the idea.

She refuses to let it affect her. So what if grand gestures—which, admittedly, this one appears as though she's kidnapping her own husband—aren't normally her thing? That doesn't mean she can't make one!

As they near their destination and the familiarity of the city is replaced by a wilder beauty, she considers whether the blindfold might've been too much. She can feel Roy's confusion grow with each jostle of the small vehicle as it winds its way up the mountain. The roads are well-kept, stretches of packed dirt that carve through the trees. Wildflowers trace the tree line and freckle the landscape with yellow, white, and red. It's a welcome change from the last time she was here, years ago, when the vegetation was adorned with nothing but frost.

The car turns left and up a smaller road. Dirt turns to gravel. The trees thin out. Their home for the next few days comes into view and Camilla draws in a shaky breath at the sight.

_Finally. _

Roy perks up at the sound. "_Now _can I take this off?"

"Not yet," she insists, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. They come to a rest and she all but scrambles out of the back seat, linking her hand around Roy's elbow to pull him with her. They're bathed in fresh air as a light breeze rustles the tree branches, blending with the distant rush of water lapping against a shore.

Camilla barely has a second to take it in. The driver rolls down her window, asking, "Are you sure, Your Majesty?"

She offers a quick smile. "We'll be fine. Thank you, Ida."

Gravel crunches and groans as the car drives away, prompting Roy to tense beside her. He's working to remain calm; she can see it in how controlled, how deliberate, his breathing is. It's the same method he uses before having to address something difficult on the Report, or when dealing with some of the more vexing members of the nobility.

Doubt edges in on her enthusiasm, but Camilla pushes it aside, determined. This is fine. This is _good._

They just need a moment to breathe_._

"Cami? Everything alright?"

His question gives her the final push she needs to reach up and remove the blindfold. Roy blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the sunlight that streams into the open space of the driveway.

"Okay, you got me," he says, squinting at their wooded surroundings. "I didn't expect this."

"That was the idea," Camilla teases. Then, softer, "What do you think?"

An A-frame structure stands in front of them, like the tip of an arrowhead planted upright in the earth. Metal siding covers the steep roof, but weathered, chestnut-brown wood makes up the rest, allowing the building to blend with the surrounding spruce and pine. And while they aren't visible from the back, Camilla's knows there are large windows that cover nearly the entire front, along with a modest deck that overlooks the lake farther down the slope.

"Someone definitely died here," Roy says.

She gasps. "They did _not._"

"It's a cabin in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere. There has to be at least one hidden compartment where it'd be convenient to hide a body."

"It's not a cabin, it's a _lakehouse. _And if there's any secret cupboards or false walls, I'd know. I was the one who designed it."

His critical expression softens as he looks over the lakehouse again, as it often does when viewing her work. She appreciates it, even if she's already spotted six different alterations she'd make given the chance to do it again.

"Honestly?" Roy says after a moment of silence. "I don't know what I think. I guess it depends on what 'this' is?"

He looks at her, brown eyes curious, brow furrowed. He trusts her, but her bringing him out here—a place so different from what they're both used to, with no guards, no staff—is bound to raise some concern.

Camilla takes both his hands in hers, and, with a deep breath, says, "'This is me forcing you to take that break you insist you don't need."

"Cami–"

"That goes for me, too," she adds, quickly. "No meetings, no forms or reports, no speeches to prepare. No...no blueprints." He gives her a knowing smirk, and she presses on before he can question her willpower. "Don't you want some time to just..._be_? To forget about things for a while?"

Roy sighs again, tilting his head back so that the light catches on his features. Quite nicely, she might add.

"More than I should," he admits. "But I can't just...my responsibilities, as king–"

"No titles," she interjects, softly, lifting a hand to redirect his face back down to her. "Not here, when it's just us. Illéa won't burst into flames, and if it does then Wafiya and parliament can manage without us for a week. We switched to constitutional monarchy for this very reason; have some faith in them."

"That still doesn't address the safety risk that this presents–"

She soothingly runs her thumb over his jaw before pointing to a cluster of trees past the lakehouse. "Durante and a team have their own lodgings less than a minute away, where they are closely monitoring every trail and road within 20 miles of here. If anything is wrong, either here or in the bigger world, then we'll know right away."

That pulls a reluctant smile from him. "Dragging us into the forest once wasn't good enough for you?"

"There was no 'dragging' the first time! You followed on your own volition, _without _my knowledge. And, I'll have you know, he was delighted to have an excuse to hole up with Rudy. This is as much a vacation for them as it is for us." She squeezes his hand, her final appeal. "Roy, you've dedicated your entire life to Illéa, and we'll have years yet to continue doing so. Five days. That's all I ask."

He watches her for a minute, and she can see the thoughts warring in his mind.

Maybe it's selfish, running away to a remote cabin when there's an entire country that looks to them for guidance, but she's been in the spotlight every day for ten years, and Roy for his whole life. Add rebel resurgences and strong-minded princesses to the mix, and it's only a matter of time before the strain becomes unbearable.

And lately, even the palace, despite its grand size, seems to press down on her. A reminder of everything that's there, and everything that isn't, and everything that _should _be there but—

No. That's a dangerous line of thinking, one she can't afford to get trapped in right now. Not when they're just starting to rise up and move on from what was one of their lowest points.

When the dust lessened—it never completely settled, not in their line of work—the blurry memory of Janine's lakehouse lodged itself in her mind and refused to leave. She took it as a sign. For both of them.

Because Roy needs this too, even if he doesn't realize it yet.

To his credit, he seems to be getting there, because with a slight shake of his head he says, "Alright, you win. Again." His eyes narrow playfully. "But only because you had time to scheme. One of these days your manipulation tactics won't work."

"Honey, plan B was to bribe you with the dog. You were going to lose anyway."

She pats his chest consolingly, and biting back a smile, makes her way towards the lakehouse.

"...The_ what _now?"

* * *

Before Camilla can even finish unlocking the door they are greeted by deep, rumbling barks that rattle through the door handle and up her arm. It takes her a few tries, hands fumbling with the key, because that does _not _sound like the sweet, lovable Labrador that York had insisted would "be no problem."

Her suspicions are further confirmed when the exterior door swings open and she can only make out a barking, frenzied blur of motion behind the screen door.

Roy must sense her apprehension. He eases her back with one hand and, with the other, opens the screen door just enough for him to slip inside. No weapons, no guards, no defense. Her protest dies on her lips as the dark shadow rears onto its hind legs and easily props it's front paws onto his shoulders. Caught off-guard, Roy stumbles back onto his bad foot, and despite the balance offered by his foot inserts, they're no match for 180 pounds of muscle and excitement. He tumbles to the floor with a startled cry.

"Roy!" She hurries inside, heart lodged in her throat, but the sight before her is enough to give pause. Because Roy is on the ground with the largest dog she's ever seen licking his face, his neck, his _mouth_—any exposed part of him—and her husband seems content to lay there and _baby talk _it.

It's mostly garbled nonsense, though she catches phrases like _look at you, handsome boy _and _I know, I know, you're excited to see me—who isn't _as he tousles the dog's face between his hands. An impressive amount of slobber flecks both his shirt and the ground.

Camilla fumbles for the light switch, even though the living space is already suffused with natural light thanks to the many windows overhead. A pleasant, yellowish hue colors the living space.

Now that Roy's safety is no longer in question, she examines the dog more closely. He's tall and lithe, covered with black fur that shines like fresh ink on paper, save for a broad, white splotch on his chest. His muzzle is longer, head framed by floppy ears. But most noticeable are the spindly legs that lead into paws so massive that they seem unnatural, even for his already sizable body.

"Bradley!" she calls, in part to give Roy some breathing room, but also to confirm that this is her cousin's dog and not some malnourished bear that found its way inside.

The dog instantly lifts his head at the name. He clambers off Roy—stepping on his stomach in the process, causing him to grunt in pain—and speeds over to her.

"Bradley?" Roy questions, as though _he_ doesn't have a track record for ridiculous names. He cranes his head to look up at her, still prone on his back. Silky strands of dark hair have come loose from their tie and fallen across his face. It's endearing, and she'd lean down to kiss him, except she gets a glimpse of Bradley's long, lolling tongue and thinks better of it.

"Named after a lizard York had as a child. This is his newest foster," she says, trying to fight off the dog's eager advances and failing. "Sit, Bradley. _Sit._"

Against all odds, Bradley does, leaning his entire body weight against her leg. She has to catch herself on the door frame to keep from stumbling.

"I didn't know your cousin was taking in horses, now," Roy says, pulling himself into a sitting position. He holds out a hand to coax Bradley back to him. The dog pays him no attention, instead moving to a basket filled with toys.

"York said he was a Labrador mix," she mutters, grabbing Roy's extended hand to help him up. "He failed to mention that the 'mix' part was Great Dane, or Saint Bernard, or moose, or...whatever he is."

Bradley lopes back towards her, a rubber hedgehog grasped in his mouth, nearly tripping over his own paws as he does so.

In hindsight, she should have expected this; York rarely passes up an opportunity to surprise her, always keeping her on her toes. Maybe she should have asked to borrow his cat, Bradlina, instead. Or even his rabbit, Brad Lee. Something...smaller and less accident prone.

Roy attempts to pull the toy away from Bradley, who is trying to keep it out of his reach while also begging Camilla to take it. The hedgehog squeaks pitifully from inside it's toothy prison.

Then again, York had insisted that dogs were good for the soul, and she has to admit that, despite his mischievous tendencies, he's right. Roy's worries already seem a little more distant, eyes a little brighter.

Bradley drops the toy, glistening with drool, right on her feet and follows it up with a sharp bark. Giving in, she tosses it across the room. He wastes no time in following.

"He's a beautiful dog. Very charming," Roy says, without a hint of sarcasm or irony, because of course he would love something that is so awkward and unusual. She loves him even more for it. "Reminds me of myself."

And _there's _the quip she was expecting.

Energy spent, Bradley flops down on a dog bed that has been placed alongside the fireplace. Roy's gaze follows, then clouds with concern. "How long was he by himself?"

"Only an hour or two," she assures. "York had a friend drop him off right before we landed. He needed someone with a lot of space to dog sit while he finishes up his exams, and I needed a backup plan. It all worked out nicely."

"Such a saint, offering solely from the goodness of your heart and for no other reason." He grabs her hand and pulls her close to his side, presses a kiss to the side of her head, and she melts into it. "I joked earlier, but how long have you been planning this?"

_Too long, _she thinks, gaze catching on the shadows under his eyes, the furrowed lines on his forehead that she knows mirrors her own. She really should have done this sooner. Maybe it would have made things easier. Maybe not.

She shakes her head and smiles.

"I'm going to make sure all our stuff arrived safely. Go play with the dog like I know you're dying to."

"And deprive you of my awe-inspiring company?" he jokes, but there's little resistance when she pushes him away with a roll of her eyes. Bradley chomps down on the toy in earnest, filling the air with tiny squeaks that are sure to grow old quickly. As she climbs the stairs that lead to the loft bedroom, she can hear Roy growling back playfully.

She takes a steadying breath, and her guilt softens, becomes nothing but a memory.

They've been a lot, the last couple years. But, here, in this moment? They don't seem as heavy.

* * *

As it turns out, relaxation is easier said than done.

The first day, all goes well. They play with the dog (or, more accurately, Roy tries to play with the dog while the dog tries to play with Camilla). Tour all four rooms of the lakehouse. Doze in the deck's hammock. Roy loses cooking privileges after he attempts to cook a frozen pizza without a tray and the entire center falls through the oven rack. They eat pasta instead—courtesy of Camilla—and take another nap.

She'd forgotten how it feels to be fully rested. It's strange not having to hold back a yawn, to look in the mirror and find that the ever-present circles under her eyes are almost unnoticeable.

With the quietude, though, comes the quiet. Not just in the absence of background noise from the palace and it's many occupants, but in the complete lack of responsibilities. Their open itinerary, coupled with the ever-present question of _what now_, is a little daunting.

It's not as though they never have downtime, back at home. There are periods of calm, but they are brief—little moments stolen throughout the chaos of the day. There will always be another meeting to prepare for, another law to revise, another disaster to mitigate. The responsibility drifts about like a restless spirit, has followed them for so long and embedded itself so deeply into their lives that she hardly notices it anymore.

Not until now.

The lakehouse, a temporary reprieve from the critical gazes of the nation, where their biggest worry is keeping the screen door closed so that bugs don't get inside? Where there's time to not only rest, but to _relax_? It takes some getting used to.

So Camilla's not that surprised when she wakes up the next morning to an empty bed.

She pulls on a sweater, not caring that it's early summer and she'll be too hot to wear it later. The mornings here are chilly, enough to freeze the tips of her fingers, and she's going to take advantage of them as much as she can. She finger-combs through her hair, leaving it down and loose, reveling in the simplicity of appearance that near-solitude allows her.

Roy seems to have had the same idea, she notes as she pads into the kitchen. Though he always looks striking in his suits, she enjoys the soft messiness that shorts and a T-shirt lend him. It's a rare sight, often confined to their living quarters after a long day (or night) of work. A visual sign that he's not King Jun Fitzroy Schreave in that moment, regal and focused and holding the weight of the world, but just Roy. _Her _Roy.

Janine had taken a rustic approach when it came to the lakehouse decor. Blankets and pillows invade every worn leather couch and chair. Garlands of dried leaves and pressed flowers hang alongside pictures framed with old tree branches, leaving the faintest scent of pine even with all the windows closed. Roy, with his wrinkled clothes and hair thrown back haphazardly, matches the cozy atmosphere perfectly.

Or, he would, if not for the rigidity that traces his back and arms. He's perched on the edge of a chair, hunched over the table. A scrap of paper sits in front of him. He's doing very little with it, tapping a pen absentmindedly against the tabletop in thought.

"Is this what you abandoned me for this morning?" She drapes her arms over his shoulders and rests her chin on his head. He freezes, then relaxes into her with a sigh, giving her full view of his writing. She recognizes it as a list of educational reforms they've been reviewing. "You have all this memorized?"

"Yes. No. Well, I _thought _I did." He runs a hand down his face and gives a frustrated growl. "No work, I know. I just...can't do _nothing _when I could be working on _something._"

It's a compulsion she's familiar with; their shared workaholic habits are something that they constantly have to call each other out on.

"Okay." She places a quick kiss to his hair. "Then we won't do nothing."

If relaxation means she has to make new distractions to fill the place of their old ones, so be it.

* * *

After alerting Durante of their plans, they take a hike. It goes as well as expected for two people who haven't really done it before.

The trail is a short one, a mile loop that meanders through the forest for a bit before tracing along part of the lakeshore and back up to the lakehouse. There are plenty of trees to offer shade, branches tangled above them like interlocking fingers. Roy still carries a gloom from the morning, mouth set and eyes distant, so Camilla fills the silence with idle chatter, pointing out the tiny chipmunks that dart across their path or the flowers that line the way. Wildflower season is in full swing, greenery prominent and thriving thanks to the spring rains.

Which is part of the problem, because although the roads have been well-maintained, the walking trails have not. Rocks stick out of the ground like stepping stones in a dry creek bed. Bushes, grasses, and tree branches alike have started to creep over the edges of the path, snagging against clothing and clawing at skin. It makes for a lot of stepping and ducking and careful observation.

Roy stumbles.

Despite his injured foot, Roy has always been fairly mobile. It's hardly a problem when he uses his cane or wears his foot inserts, as he is today. On his more unstable days, Camilla doesn't mind giving him something to hang onto; he doesn't mind either, enjoying the excuse to have her so close. Together, the rough trail should be something they can easily navigate, but he's distracted, his mind back in Angeles and everything that waits for them. She tries to stay vigilant and keep an eye out for them both, but she can't see everything. His frustration grows with each fumble.

"This isn't working," he eventually says after his foot catches on an exposed tree root and Camilla nearly twists her ankle catching him. "I'm going back to the lakehouse. You can continue without my dead weight."

"You're not dead weight, Roy," she chides, not unkindly. The self-deprecation in his voice sends warning chills along her skin, awakens something fierce and protective in her chest. She hates it when _anyone _talks about him in that way, and she won't stand for it, especially when it's himself. "And splitting up would be a terrible decision. We're almost there."

"We haven't even hit the halfway mark—at this rate it'll be sunset before we finish! I'll be saving you a world of trouble if I turn back now." His voice is curt, disappointment in himself causing the ends to waver. His foot must be hurting him because he's favoring one side more than the other.

"If you want to go back the way we came, that's fine, but I'm coming with you."

"I'm not going to drag you down, Cami. You deserve to have fun."

This is a tiny argument, not the worst one they've had by far, but his insistence that she leave him echoes a bigger fight, one that led to one of the hardest weeks of her life. He probably doesn't even realize that he's icing her out again, but she's still left feeling a little cold. She focuses her attention on a nearby aspen to keep herself calm, examines the white bark and trembling leaves and not the frustration building in her own chest. Breathes in. Breathes out.

"So do you," she reasons, fighting to keep her voice even, "and if you aren't having fun, then we aren't going to do it. Simple as that."

Roy's gaze falls to her hand when she turns back to him, the one where she broke her fingers. If she can't pull him out of this soon then he'll start beating himself up for things that happened as far back as a decade ago, which is decidedly counterproductive to why she brought him here in the first place.

"If you need some space, that's alright." Camilla reaches out slowly, anxious not to crowd him. She's flooded with relief when he takes her hand, even if it's just instinctual. "But we head back together."

He stares at the ground a bit longer, jaw clenched, but finally manages to meet her eyes and nod.

Bradley is vibrating with energy when they return, shoving his wet nose against Camilla's hand one moment and sniffing at Roy's shoelaces the next. It's a bright light in the somber atmosphere, even if it doesn't break through it completely.

"I'm going to take a shower," Roy mumbles, and she doesn't try to stop him. He's not that dirty—clothes taking the brunt of dust and twigs garnered from their failed hike—but she suspects that it's more to help him clear his mind than to get clean.

She grabs her sketchpad, leaves a note so he doesn't worry at her disappearance, and makes her way to the lake. He'll come find her when he's ready.

The lake isn't huge—the far shore is easily visible, though a little blurry—but it's more than big enough for Camilla. While her and Roy had looked over it from the deck last night, this is the first time she's come close enough to see the finer details. The edges are murky, waves stirring up mud to mix with the reeds and algae. Farther out the water is a vibrant blue that traps fractures of sunlight on its surface.

On the side closest to the lakehouse stands a small dock. Sturdy, but the splintered wood is starting to show wear from the elements. While Camilla doubts that Janine has used it for actual boating, the pair of plastic, olive green lounge chairs that sit on top indicate it at least gets some form of use.

Ignoring the chairs, she settles on a fallen log a good twenty feet from shore. Water swishes softly as it curls around the legs of the dock, which most might find soothing, but it makes Camilla's skin itch. She turns to a fresh page in the notebook and begins to sketch a rough outline of the lake, hoping to chase away some of her unease. The scratch of her pencil against paper is familiar, and the tension in her shoulder eases, just a little bit.

Unfortunately, it does little to corral her wandering mind.

Maybe she's done nothing but make Roy more distressed, dragging him out here. She'd been so sure that this would be good for them—and she still so desperately _wants _to believe it—but doubt is wearing through her resolve. Because she can take them out of the public eye, force him to breathe fresh air, distract him with a dog, but what if it's not enough? What if he never gets the reprieve that he needs?

What then?

There's a splash from the middle of the lake. She glances up quickly, but all she can see are ripples, the cause of the sound long gone. It reminds her of just how deep the lake must be, and the itch under her skin turns to a buzz as her aquaphobia rears its ugly head.

_Unwind by a large body of water. Great idea, Camilla, _she thinks wryly.

Everything in her body is screaming for her to get more distance. Instead, she turns around so that her back is to the lake and abandons her scenic sketch to work on a redesign of the lakehouse. The distraction helps somewhat, makes it a little easier to breathe and lessens her fear.

The buzzing all but disappears when she spots Roy making his way down the slope towards her. His presence wraps around her like a comfort blanket. He stops a few feet away, one hand scratching at his five o'clock shadow, expression almost sheepish until she gestures for him to take the seat next to her.

He does, not quite touching but still close enough for his shirt sleeve to brush against her arm.

"Shame you didn't join me earlier," she says. Her face is still directed towards the sketchbook, but she watches him from the corner of her eye. "I went for a swim. It was nice."

"No you didn't, because I wasn't here to push you in." She chuckles at the memory, and he rests his head on her shoulder. He swallows before saying, "I'm sorry."

"I know," she says, matching his quiet tone, waiting patiently as he searches for words.

"It was so damn peaceful this morning that I didn't know what to do with it. We don't have someone, or _something, _interrupting us every half hour, so I thought that maybe I could make some progress on the reforms. And when I _couldn't _I… I got caught up in my frustration and unfairly took it out on you." She gives him _a look_, eyes narrowed, and he raises his hands in defeat. "And myself. I was being unfair to myself, too."

She tilts her head towards him, as much as she can with him so close. The scent of his shampoo floods her senses. "I understand. I just...sometimes I'm scared that you'll push me away, like before."

"Cami…"

"I'll keep saying it if I have to. I _want _to be here, Roy. With you, and for you." He grabs her hand, and she watches as he traces the lines of her palm with his thumb. "We're in this together, remember?"

He laughs, though it lacks humor. "Honey, trust me when I say I'm not keen on repeating that mistake any time soon. I might be an idiot, but I'm not _that _much of one."

"Good," she says, and it's as though the world stops holding its breath, a sense of normalcy returning to the air. She resumes sketching. He watches, still holding her hand as he toys idly with her wedding ring, spinning it around her finger again and again and again.

They fall into a comfortable silence, so it startles her when, after a few minutes, he says, "You're pretty quiet."

She raises her eyebrows and places the pencil on her lap. "I assumed we were having one of those 'just sit and enjoy each other's company' moments, but if you're bored–"

"No," he interjects, "I love those moments. But this is a loud quiet." He taps the side of her head lightly with a finger. "A Cami's-still-worried-but-keeping-it-all-in-her-head quiet."

Roy was one of the first people she let in, back when she was learning it was okay to share emotion. His patient support was invaluable as she worked to rewire the thoughts her uncle had ingrained so deeply, and as a result he can read her a little too well at times. He didn't read wrong; there has been something gnawing at her, ever since she removed that blindfold.

She faces him, biting at her lip, and asks, "Are you happy?"

Now it's his turn to be surprised. "What?"

"Are you happy on this vacation, or has this just been miserable? Because if it has, it really is okay, but I need to know so that I can–"

"Whoa, whoa! Hey," he says, moving off the log to kneel in front of her, grimacing as pine needles and bits of rotted bark dig into his uncovered knees. "First of all, yes, of course I'm happy; I'm with you. Second, it's good you pulled me out of my office because I'd almost forgotten what the sky looks like, which might be indicative of a larger problem, but we'll revisit that later. And third," he squeezes her shoulders, "you said this trip was for you, too, babe. I know it's hard for you to look away from the splendor of my face, but all the focus can't be placed on me. To share some recently imparted wisdom: we're in this together, remember?"

Camilla leans forward to rest her forehead against his, trying to hide her watery eyes. "That's playing dirty. Using my own words against me."

"Oh, there were dirtier words I could have chosen." He pulls back to wink at her. Although it doesn't look as suave as he probably thinks it does, it still brings heat to her face. He gestures to her improved lakehouse design—which, in her defense, is technically not a blueprint. "Both of us are really, _really _bad at this 'no work' thing."

"We really are."

"So how about a new goal? I'll try to put less pressure on myself if you try to worry less about making things perfect." He extends a hand to her, face arranged in mock seriousness. "Are both parties in agreement?"

She grabs his hand and pulls him closer so she can place a brief kiss to his lips, smiling as she pulls away.

"Yes, I would say so."

* * *

It doesn't take much for Roy's words to seep into her heart, thrumming through her veins like a mantra: w_orry less about making things perfect. _Worry to Camilla is like Bradley to his bacon treats—not easily separated. But it's a step, something small for her to work towards. Camilla can do it.

Roy can't. At least, not when it comes to roasting marshmallows, where perfection is apparently non-negotiable.

Ten years, and they're still capable of surprising one another.

They're settled beside the outdoor fire pit. Orange flame wavers and twists in front of them, infusing the blanket draped over her legs with warmth. Flecks of whitish-gray ash peel from the burning logs and drift into the air. Some speckle Roy's dark hair, alight on Camilla's beige skin like confetti. The sun is just setting, casting long shadows over Roy's face, but that does little to hide the way his nose wrinkles in disgust.

"I can't believe this."

"_I _can't believe you're making such a fuss! It's not _that _strange."

Roy nudges her foot with his. "There's nothing normal about making s'mores with burnt marshmallows. And _liking _it. It goes against the very laws of nature."

"I don't know, nature seems to be helping me out here," she says, gesturing to her marshmallow, which is wreathed in bright flame. Black bubbles, unhurried, along the surface. It's mesmerizing, beautiful, and not deserving of his contempt.

"Against _my _laws, then. I'm the king. It counts."

"Hm, nice try. No titles, remember?" Camilla pulls her skewer back from the pit and blows lightly to snuff out the flame. "See, Roy? Crispy outside, gooey inside—same outcome as your slow toasting. Besides, the chocolate covers any charcoal flavoring."

To prove her point, she stabs a small chunk of chocolate into the marshmallow's center and eats it immediately, too irate to remember the graham crackers. Or the cooling time. Heat blazes across her tongue as the burning sugar kills half of her taste buds. Stifling a gasp, she forces herself to swallow. Her eyes water from the pain.

The look of horror that unfurls on Roy's face is absolutely worth it.

"Who _are _you? Because the Cami I know would never be capable of such blasphemy!"

He makes a show of moving his camping chair farther away from her. He's still sitting, so it doesn't go more than a few inches, scraping awkwardly across the ground as he tries to maneuver. A soft touch of her hand to his wrist is enough to stop him.

"Okay, okay! Careful, please. The big, bad, burnt marshmallow is gone. We don't need you falling into the fire trying to run from it."

He opens his mouth to refute, then snaps it shut. "That would happen, wouldn't it?" he grumbles.

Laughing softly, Camilla restocks two skewers with marshmallows and hands one to him in truce. Bradley, who had been snoozing behind her chair to hide from the smoke, hears the rustle of the bag and raises his head hopefully. Roy notices. The treat is transferred from the stick to his hand, which he holds out in offering.

"Here, boy! Let's get you away before her terrible influence can spread."

"Says the one feeding him pure sugar."

"See? I'm the _fun _one."

Camilla sighs and stretches. The blanket shifts so that the fire's heat hits her ankles. "If he develops a sweets addiction, you're the one who explains to York why."

"That's only _if _we give him back. Want to live in a palace, Bradley-boy?"

Hearing his name, the dog stands with a sigh. He seems to have two settings: overwhelmingly hyper or underwhelmingly lazy. Right now the latter is present, to Camilla's relief. Warmth has turned her body languid; she's not sure she'd have the strength or reflexes to hold him back if he decided to chase the flames.

In an attempt to direct him to Roy, she tucks the marshmallow bag under her blanket and out of sight. He doesn't seem to notice Roy's offered treat, and licks Camilla's sticky fingers instead.

"Traitor," Roy says, though it's good-natured. He re-skewers the marshmallow and positions it over the embers, which emit a low, red glow, pulsing like blackened hearts. "I guess this means you win."

"Huh?"

"Bradley. He likes you better."

"He does not," she protests. "And it's not a competition. He plays with you all the time!"

"Yeah, but given the choice he always goes to you." Roy looks pointedly at her lap, where Bradley rests his enormous head. Camilla nudges it lightly, trying to dissuade him before he drools, to no avail. "Tell me what you sneak into his food, because he loooves you," he teases.

Camilla snorts. "Are you jealous?"

"Maybe."

"Of me or the dog?"

"Yes."

Despite the lightheartedness in his voice, she's… not sure that Roy's completely joking. She had to compete with 34 other girls for Roy's heart, and while it's entertaining to see _him _on the other end this time, that doesn't negate that his competition is a _dog. _

She pats his shoulder. "If it's any comfort, I like you more than the dog, Roy."

"Thank god. My self-confidence lives another day!" He throws a hand dramatically to his chest. "But are you _sure_?Because I'm not convinced anyone could resist that face."

The labradane has taken to licking her _shirt_, of all things. It'd be cute, except for the way slobber plasters the fabric unpleasantly to her stomach.

"Yeah," she says dryly. "I'm pretty sure."

A piece of firewood pops loudly, spilling sparks out of the fire ring and causing them both to jump. Camilla jerks her legs back to keep the blanket from catching. Roy removes his roasting stick with a yelp and inspects the marshmallow methodically for anything other than golden brown perfection. Strangely, the way he cradles it brings vague memories of how he'd cradle Tay when he was a small baby.

It stirs something funny in her chest, a bittersweetness that has her stroking Bradley for comfort. His fur is sleek, allowing her fingers to glide effortlessly. She breathes in, and the heady scent of campfire grounds her.

This isn't the first time she's felt like this, and it won't be the last, but...this time it's a little different; the pressures placed upon them by both others and themselves weighs lighter. She has the space to work through it. So by the time Roy takes a triumphant bite of his s'more, crowing over how perfect it is, her fond smile is real.

"You could have roasted it quicker and saved some time, but since you insist on staying stubborn..."

"I stand by this masterpiece I've created." He leans close. His voice drops to the lowest of whispers, traveling pleasantly along her spine. "Want a taste?"

"That was almost smooth," she says, but she allows him to delicately place a hand to the back of her head, guiding her to him. His lips are sticky, and sweet, soothing the numbness that irritates her burned mouth. They kiss slow and steady, like they have all the time in the world.

_Who's to say we don't? _she thinks. It's easy to get lost in each other—in the way he can still make her heart beat wildly, at the same time endowing it with a sense of calm. Being with him is a suspension between seconds, worlds, lifetimes.

"If you want to admit that I was right, it's okay," he says when they finally part. "My marshmallow toasting is unrivaled and there's no way you didn't enjoy that."

"By that logic, you enjoyed my burnt one," she says, pleased.

Roy groans and snatches the marshmallow bag from her. "Well, the _idea _of it is still disgusting." The corner of his mouth quirks upward. "But I love you anyway."

"I love you, too."

And she does, even as she continues to purposefully burn marshmallows, prompting him to pelt her forehead with one in retaliation, the sound of their laughter interwoven with the crackling of campfire.

* * *

It's not long before Camilla is attacked again, this time by something decidedly more deadly than a marshmallow.

A low rasp is the only warning given when she wanders into the storage shed, in search of a sun umbrella for the deck but instead finding a long, heavy bag when it tumbles from a high shelf. She dodges right before it can take off her head, hissing in pain as her hip collides with the edge of a charcoal grill. A heavy _thud _rattles the floorboards.

Massaging her already-bruising side, she crouches down to discover it's a tent. It reminds her of the blanket forts she and her cousins used to construct, back when the world was...not simpler, necessarily, but smaller. Less overwhelming. Nostalgia creeps along the edges of her mind, tempting her.

The store tags are still attached, suggesting that it's never been used. She's never actually set up a tent before. It causes some hesitation.

But, she reasons, Janine—still trusting in their friendship, even though she and Camilla haven't seen each other since the wedding—had said to help themselves. Besides, the only harm she'll be doing is getting it a little dusty. Camilla has designed entire buildings from the ground up—a tent should be child's play.

She takes the bag, umbrella forgotten.

Half an hour later she's trying not to curse as she kneels over a pile of bright orange nylon, stakes, and plastic poles. The wind is out in full force, strong enough for the tips of the trees to sway drunkenly. While it alleviates the intensity of the sun overhead, drying the beads of sweat on her forehead, it also seizes the tent fabric every time she so much as lifts a corner. After one particularly hefty gust, Camilla finds herself nearly smothered as the thin fabric rises like a tidal wave to engulf her.

She claws her way out of the mess to find Roy staring down at her from the deck. He's not even trying to hide his laughter.

"What?" she grumbles, tugging at a long strand of hair that'd gotten caught in her eyelashes.

"Just wondering how my wife, an _architect, _is getting bested by a tent." He leans his forearms on the deck railing, drawing attention to how the sleeves of his striped, button down shirt are rolled to his elbows. He's in a good mood today. While his delight at her struggle isn't appreciated, she'll admit it looks good on him.

Camilla shoots him an annoyed glare, even as her eyes linger appreciatively on the upwards curve of his mouth; she can multitask.

"Some support would be nice."

He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Good work, babe! I believe in you! Show that tent who's really in charge!" His hands drop as her glare intensifies, though his eyes glimmer with self-satisfaction. "Did you try the instructions?"

"There aren't any. But it's simply sliding poles through holes—it shouldn't be this hard!" She jabs a finger accusingly in his direction. "If you turn this into a 'that's what she said' joke, so help me, Roy–"

"I didn't say anything."

"_Mm-hmm_. I bet you're not thinking about how flexible these poles are, either."

He leans farther over the wood railing with a sly grin. "Well I wasn't _before_, but _now_…"

That almost breaks her angry facade, and Camilla ducks her head to keep her composure. Then another strong wind blasts around them and she has to scramble to keep said poles from rolling away. She pins them down with her knee, slamming both her hands on the rainfly to keep it still.

"As _helpful _as your commentary is, actually coming down here to help me would be appreciated."

After one final chuckle, he does. The project proves to be much more manageable with two sets of hands. She plans the best build for structural support while Roy uses his cane to hold down the loose fabric, and after some experimentation they manage to construct something resembling a tent. It still doesn't look quite right—there's a pole lying to the side, as likely to be essential to the tent's infrastructure as it is to be a spare—but it stands firm.

Camilla would even go as far as to say that they've _improved _the design.

"_So,_" Roy says as they take in the final product, "is this where we are sleeping tonight? I know the lakehouse's bed doesn't match the quality of ours back home, but, erm, I wouldn't say _this _is an upgrade." He flinches, then backpedals. "Not that the lakehouse bed is _bad_—your friend has good taste and she doesn't need to know I insulted it, please and thank you."

"But _mine _is okay to insult?"

"You _did _decide to marry me, so I'll let that speak for if you have good taste or not." He sighs, and says, "If...if you really _want _to sleep in a tent then...we can try it."

Camilla can't help but smile at his reluctance. She's not eager to sleep on the ground either. Probably a result of being spoiled by the luxury of the palace for too long, or a preference for housing with solid walls as opposed to only a thin sheet for protection.

Or maybe they're just getting old and the cold, hard ground isn't as appealing at 30 as it is at 20. Not that either of them would admit it.

"No sleeping, just lunch," she says. "How does a picnic sound?"

"Perfect."

They go inside to collect ingredients for sandwiches, and some sliced fruit, along with enough pillows and blankets to turn younger Camilla dizzy with all the fort building options before her. Bradley is eager to follow. His long legs nearly tangle with each other in the rush to get outside and run free, so they grab a leash for him as well.

"Thank you," Roy says, voice casual but no less genuine as they maneuver their way towards the door.

She loops Bradley's leash tighter around her arm, though it does little to keep him from bumping head-first into the screen door. "You're welcome, but it's only lunch. A simple one, at that. If I'd known you were _that _hungry we would've eaten earlier."

Roy grins. "Well, yes, but not just for that—for this trip. I don't think I've thanked you for it yet."

"Honestly, I didn't even notice." She smiles warmly at him. Pauses. Then adds, "I thought you already _had _thanked me, in other ways. Like last night. But I wouldn't be opposed if you want to thank me again..."

Roy is usually the one trying to fluster _her, _and she blames the role reversal on those damned rolled sleeves. Or maybe it's the way his smile illuminates his eyes, coaxing dark amber hues from the rich brown. Either way, there's no need to be conscious of public displays of affection here in the mountains. If she wants to flirt with her husband, then she's very well going to.

The tip of Roy's ears turn a bright red, and the blush slowly but surely starts to seep into his face, his neck. His resulting smile borders on fiendish. Unfortunately, his reply is cut short as they stroll out onto the deck, right in time to see the tent go airborne.

"Damn it!" Roy swears. He surges forward at a surprisingly fast pace, considering he has to manage both a cane and an arm full of blankets, but it's too late. The wind lifts the tent—now little more than a twisting mass of plastic and neon orange—up and over the tops of the trees. Bradley snarls at the strange sight, pulling frantically at the leash. He nearly drags both Camilla and their lunch off the deck. "How the hell?"

_How the hell, indeed. _She turns her gaze to the recently-vacated forest floor, where there are only some flattened plants and the spare tent pole.

As well as a cluster of metal stakes.

"We...we forgot to stake it down," she realizes, and then she's giggling, barely holding back a snort of laughter at the absurdity of it all. Bradley stops barking, though he's still guarded, ears perked as he sits himself down on her foot.

Roy gives up the chase and returns, only slightly out of breath. "We don't speak of this to anyone. If Janine asks, it was, um...raccoons."

Camilla nods. Her laughter fades as embarrassment settles in. They watch the tent shrink into the distance, and she makes a mental note to buy Janine a new one. More expensive, with heavier canvas.

And this time, instructions _will _be included.

* * *

Camilla's nightmares have always been quiet affairs. They're the kind that lock her in her own body, muscles coiled tight enough to make even her teeth ache. Clear images are rare. Instead, she finds herself smothered by vague shapes and feelings and colors, stripped of everything but fear until she can claw herself awake with a shuddering gasp.

The _real _nightmare is the unease that follows. It stays with her long past the morning hours and into the day, pervading her with a sense of _wrongness _that isn't easily shaken. It's troublesome, but silent. Hides beneath her skin.

Nightmares are different for Roy: vivid, loud, and twisted in ways that she's never experienced. Though they aren't as frequent as they once were, they are still a permanent fixture in his life, and hers. Even in a place as peaceful as the lakehouse. The scars of their past are too deep to ever fade completely.

But at least they have each other.

She doesn't hesitate when Roy's screaming wakes her, immediately propping herself on one elbow as she turns towards him. She gently smooths hair back from his sweaty face. Her heart constricts, as though caught in a noose, as she watches his limbs twitch, back nearly arching off the mattress with how tense he is. Terror arranges itself as a painful portrait on his face.

"Roy. Come back to me, honey. It'll pass. Come back." Words murmured over and over as she coaxes him into consciousness.

This is always her least favorite part—the waiting for him to wake up. Once he's cognizant, she can help alleviate the fear. Can place some kinder, softer memories in his mind. Until then, she's helpless except to watch.

He does awake, eventually. His cries quiet, fizzling in his throat as he rolls to face the wall, breathing heavily, eyes glazed. Camilla slowly wraps her arms around his torso. She presses her face between his shoulder blades, continuing to mumble reassurances against the warm, sweaty skin of his back. His hand moves to grip hers tightly, though he doesn't speak.

Sometimes he'll discuss his bad dreams with her. Other times he prefers the silence. She waits, following his lead.

Finally, he whispers, "I need some air." His voice is rough, as though parched for days. It seems to grate against her very soul.

"Do you want me with you?"

"Please."

They end up nestled in the deck's hammock with her tucked into his side, head on his chest. Cricket chirps quiver through the air. The lake is still, allowing moonlight to rest unbroken on its surface. Roy plays with her hair, carding his fingers through it. She closes her eyes at the gentle ministrations and emits a low hum from the back of her throat.

"Tell me something," he says.

"Like what?"

"Anything."

She hums again, this time more thoughtful. On sleepless nights like this, Niel used to regale her with details of space and the universe, and she combs her memory. She catches little fragments, but nothing solid. It would be best left to her cousin.

What she _does _have are stories, folklore that was passed down from her ancestors for hundreds of years until it reached her uncle, who in turn shared it with her—probably the only earnest gift he's ever given.

Her first instinct is to share her personal favorite, that of Raven and fire. Roy has heard it before, and she doesn't think he'd mind, but...

He rolls the tips of her hair between his fingers, his gaze wandering to the sky, waiting patiently.

The night stretches over them like a mother duck shielding her babies, starlight peering through the inky blackness of her feathers. Compared to the last time Camilla found time to stargaze, the sky seems sharper. Crystalline. She's not sure if it's because time has softened her memory, or if it's from the lack of artificial light—save for the faint glow of a cabin from across the lake. Her eyes catch on the moon, not quite full, but luminescent.

She speaks.

"There was a time when the world was dark—a thick, all-consuming blackness. Darker than anything that came before, and anything that's come since."

She can't tell it as well as her uncle. For as cold and unforgiving as his voice is, even on a good day, he has a knack for breathing life into his stories. He pauses at the right moments, phrases things in a way that turned legends and history into something _real. _It's not easily replicated.

Still, she tries her best as she explains how an old man kept all the light hoarded away in his home. How Raven—cunning and prideful—devised a plan to take the light for himself, turning himself into a hemlock needle so that the old man's daughter would swallow him when she came to drink, allowing him to be reborn.

"From the moment he was born, Raven was a fussy child. He would cry for days on end. Nothing seemed to soothe him. Finally, the old man gave him one of his treasured parcels, saying, 'Do not cry, my grandchild, for this is the bag of stars.' It worked, for a time. Raven opened the bag, releasing hundreds of stars through the smoke hole of the old man's house. They scattered into the sky, becoming as we now see them today."

Camilla traces the constellation of Orion with her finger. She can sense Roy track the movement.

"Raven cried again, begging and pleading until the old man handed him another package, saying, 'Do not cry, my grandchild, for this bag holds the moon.' As before, Raven played with the moon until it, too, escaped through the smoke hole, growing larger as it rose into the sky.

"For a third time, Raven's cries filled the dark. The old man handed him the final sack, saying, 'Do not cry, my grandchild, for this is the bag of light.' As soon as Raven held the bag in his hands, he himself escaped through the smoke hole, uttering a raven's cry that revealed his true form."

She hears Roy exhale slowly. His hand remains tangled in her hair, though it has stilled.

"Roy?" she questions, soft.

"Still awake," he mumbles. "Go on."

He seems to be barely holding to consciousness, but she continues, describing how Raven eventually came across a large river and asked the people of the nearby town for passage to the other side, and when they refused him, he threatened to cover them in light.

"They'd never seen daylight, you see, so it scared them," Camilla says. She stifles a yawn, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest. "But still, they refused. In anger, Raven opened the bag, releasing the sun into the sky and light upon the land."

Her final words fade into the cool air. She turns her gaze from the sky to Roy's face. His eyes are closed, brow relaxed in sleep, mouth parted slightly.

She should wake him so that they can go back into the lakehouse, where it's warmer. Not to mention how exposed they are, in the open like this. It's dangerous. But as she wraps herself around him, the call of a distant owl the only sign of life, it doesn't feel that way.

It feels as though nothing can touch them here.

Her own eyes grow heavy as the late hour finally catches up. She has just enough energy to place a light kiss to the underside of his jaw, stubble prickling her skin, and pull the blanket tighter around them before she joins him in sleep.

They dream, undisturbed, until morning.

* * *

The scent of coffee—nutty, with a hint of caramel—wakes Camilla their last morning at the lakehouse. More shocking is the sight of Roy, who stands over her side of the bed with two steaming mugs.

"Is this for me?" she mumbles. Drowsiness still fogs her brain, filling her mouth with cotton, so it sounds more like, "Ishf me?"

Roy chuckles. He waits until she's propped herself against the headboard before passing the mug over. "You're beautiful, so don't take it wrong, but you look like you need this."

"My hero." She takes a cautious sip. Her eyes widen at the taste, sweeter than she was expecting. "Wait...did you make this yourself?"

"Don't know why you look so surprised, but yes."

"And the coffee machine is still functioning?"

"Pffft, of course it is."

"...You asked Rudy for help, didn't you?"

"I'm not helpless, you know," Roy says with a pout. She eyes him over the rim of the mug until he concedes, "Okay, I might have had to ask Rudy how to start it. But everything else was me!"

A pleasant warmth settles in her chest, brought on by more than the hot coffee.

"This is wonderful, Roy. Thank you."

She crosses her legs so that he can sit on the bed and finish his own coffee. It's early, and the sun is barely starting to rise over the top of the mountain, tracing the gray clouds on the horizon with a deep purple. Frenzied birdsong sounds from outside the window; the forest is already awake and active.

"What time do we leave today?" Roy asks, and Camilla frowns at the reminder.

"York's friend should be by to pick Bradley up around three. We need to be at the airport by five."

"Good. We should have enough time, then."

It's then she notices how he's dressed—worn jeans, tucked into hiking boots that look suspiciously new. She didn't even know he owned a pair, and she for sure doesn't remember packing any for him.

At her quizzical expression, he shrugs. "I thought we could try hiking again, since our last one went, um, unfinished. Rudy told me of a trail he and Durante went on that you might enjoy."

She struggles to imagine their city-born friend trekking through the woods, but as with most things, Rudy is proven to be right—to an extent. Camilla doesn't enjoy the hike; she adores it.

Unlike the first one, this trail isn't as overgrown, which makes it easier for Roy. It runs farther up the hillside, leading out to a cliff that overlooks a decent portion of the valley. From here, the lake is smaller, and for the first time Camilla can look at it without a twinge of anxiety. Instead, elation spikes through her, reminiscent of her climbing days. It's been so long since she's been up this high. She'd missed it.

Roy is as charmed by the view as she is, pointing out how tiny the trees are and grabbing her arm excitedly when a hawk swoops below them. She quickly redirects his attention before he can get ideas about smuggling both Bradley _and _a wild bird home.

Eventually, the storm clouds on the horizon roll in and they have to turn back.

They aren't quick enough.

Just as the lakehouse becomes visible through the gaps in the trees, a deep grumble of thunder shivers through her chest and raises the hair on her arms. Lightning flashes between the clouds. More thunder. Then it's as though the sky shatters, releasing a torrent of rain. Even under the partial cover of tree branches, they are drenched in seconds.

"Hurry!" Camilla yells, though they are already sprinting wildly towards what is hopefully the lakehouse. It's hard to see through the deluge, everything hazy as water dribbles into her eyes. The ground turns muddy, splattering with every footstep. Camilla makes it only a couple steps before she feels the ground give way under her foot. One second she's running, and the next she's flat on her back, breath knocked from her lungs and body throbbing with pain.

Roy kneels by her immediately. The gentleness of his hand as it supports her head is a sharp contrast to the frantic way he looks her over. "Are you okay?" he asks, and when she simply stares up at him, he curses and examines her more thoroughly for signs of injury.

Blinking away her daze, Camilla tries to assess as well. Everything feels fine, if a little sore and chilled from the sodden ground. She flexes her fingers to feel them sink into the earth.

"Roy?"

"Yeah?" He comes back into view, mouth pursed, expression pitched with concern.

It's their last day of vacation—Camilla can't have him getting too serious on her.

"There's something on your face."

Fast as a snake striking its prey, she brings her hand up and swipes two fingers across his face, leaving a streak of mud on his left cheek. He gawks at her. His eyes are almost cartoonishly large as he stumbles over his words.

"Er...I...wha–"

"What? Scared of a little mud?" She marks another smudge across his forehead, this time slow. Deliberate. "Or is _the king_ too high and mighty for this?"

He dips his head lower, eyes now ablaze with challenge, and all but growls, "_Oh_? And what happened to 'no titles,' _my queen_?"

Her stomach swoops at the low timbre of his voice, and it leaves her too distracted to dodge when he scoops up a handful of mud and brings it to the side of her face. Gritty and cold, it drips down her neck and into her shirt. She scrambles out from under him with a squeal. He gets her a second time as she darts away—plastering her already-filthy hair to the back of her neck—and _oh, is he going to regret that._

Ducking and throwing, they dance around each other. He places a grimy handprint to her right arm. She reloads and aims for his knee, but he sidesteps and she ends up splattering his boots instead.

Changing tactics, Camilla uses the trees to her advantage, weaving around them to come from behind. Roy yelps as the mud dribbles down his hair. Laughter bubbles from her throat.

The victory is short-lived.

He hooks her around the waist with one arm and drops mud down the back of her shirt. She struggles, but he doesn't release her until after she pokes him in the side, making him flinch. Their feet scramble for purchase on the slick ground, shouting and sliding, and they end up coated in more mud from slipping than from each other.

At one point, Roy nearly careens into her and, flailing ungracefully, he catches himself just before they tumble into a tree. Their eyes meet, large smiles on both their faces and chests heaving, exhausted from both the mud fight and laughing.

"Truce," Roy gasps. "I call truce."

Camilla eyes him with suspicion, and he holds his hands out. They are painted with a thin layer of mud, but empty.

She gives in and rests her back against the rough bark of the tree. The rain has lightened from a downpour to a drizzle, though it's still enough to send cold water sluicing down Camilla's face and arms. It helps clean her somewhat, leaving furrows on her clothes and skin.

Roy palms both sides of her face, smoothing away the hair stuck to her cheeks with his thumbs. She's about as attractive as a drowned rat, but he smiles, eyes tender.

"Hey," he says, so soft that it's almost lost in the patter of the rain.

She takes him in—the large, almost dopey smile on his face, the crinkles by his eyes, the mud streaking his skin—and she leans into his touch, heart fuller than she thought possible. So much so that it's hard to breathe.

"Hi, handsome."

Roy laughs. A loud, booming laugh that bounces off the trees, searing itself forever in her memory. Free and wild and uninhibited. His arms drop to her shoulders, joy tremoring through his entire body.

It's been such a long time since she's heard him laugh like that.

It's contagious. She joins, laughing so hard that her ribs hurt, and she has to hold her sides. Snorts erupt through her giggles, then sobs.

She doesn't even realize she's crying until Roy quiets and calls her name in concern. His grip on her shoulders tightens protectively.

She can't stop it. Tears fall down her cheeks in rivulets that mix with the rain. Her mouth opens and closes, working to make words, but they get lodged in her throat.

For a moment, Roy stares at her helplessly before gathering her into a hug. His arms pull her tight to him, and she automatically tucks her face into the curve of his neck, immediately calmed by the scent of him, as faint as it is under the layers of mud and rain. He rubs slow circles on her back in comfort.

Once her sobs have quieted to sniffles, he asks, "What's wrong?"

She pulls back. "N-nothing." He gives her an incredulous look, and she injects her fragile voice with as much sincerity as she can. "Honestly, I'm fine. More than fine."

"You're _crying!_"

"I'm...happy." The realization dawns on her, like a blossom slow to bloom. She laughs again. Judging from the look on Roy's face, she's coming across as a little unhinged. But she doesn't care, because– "I'm drenched and it's freezing and we're both a mess and you're _laughing, _Roy. And I'm so, so happy." She sniffs and swipes at a tear on her cheek. "And crying, apparently."

"Apparently," he repeats. Bewildered, but fond. Shivers wrack both their bodies from standing in the cold rain for so long, and he runs his hands over the goosebumps that have risen along her arms. "We should probably get inside where it's warm and dry, huh?"

She hums in affirmation. "Snuggling next to a large, warm dog sounds nice."

"I…" Roy squints down at her. "I don't know whether to be proud that you've finally come around to Bradley, or offended that you'd rather cuddle with him than me. I'm warm!"

"No, you're _sweaty. _There's a difference," she says, teasing. She offers a hand to him. "He can heat up the couch while we shower off this muck and get into some dryer clothes."

He grabs her hand, placing a kiss to her wrist before entangling their fingers together. "Together?"

She tugs them towards the lakehouse, smiling at him over her shoulder. "I was counting on it."

* * *

The lakehouse's door closes with a soft _click. _Camilla takes her time locking it, staring and the knots and swirls in the wood before she steps back with a sigh.

"Back to the real world," she says.

Roy stands beside her. His shoulders are relaxed, an ease to his voice when he asks, "Are you ready for this?"

In answer, she turns. There's a black car idling in the gravel driveway, but she ignores it. Roy follows her without question, and chuckles when she crouches down to search the ground with deep concentration.

"Ah, right. Memory rock. What number jar are you on now? Fifteen?"

"_Three,_" she corrects, glancing up just long enough to stick her tongue out at him. Her fingers curl around one particular stone—sleek, as though washed smooth by the lake below them. Colored dark gray with a white streak through the center, reminding her of Bradley.

_Perfect._

Even then, they don't head to the car. Instead she guides him to the deck and places the stone on top of the wooden railing.

"It would be a shame," she says in reply to Roy's confused glance, "if I were to...leave the memory rock behind. We might have to come back at a later date. Spend a whole week searching for it, even."

His face brightens with understanding. "Have I ever told you I find your scheming attractive?"

"I find it rather attractive, myself," Camilla jokes.

She takes a moment to look over the lakehouse one last time. Steady and quiet, wood darkened by the recent rain. They don't need it anymore—eager to return to the palace and their family, determined for whatever comes next—but it'll always be waiting for them if they do.

She turns back to Roy and rests her hand on the crook of his arm. He smiles in reply, and she finds peace in it.

"Now I'm ready," she says. "Let's go home."


End file.
